


(show me how to) lay my sword down

by hedahawkeye



Series: WWSYN [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, no beta we die like (wo)men, the martian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 45,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27565948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedahawkeye/pseuds/hedahawkeye
Summary: The Ares 3 crew is reunited, but a hundred million miles of empty space still stands between them and a successful return to Earth. A trip made all the more strenuous by the difficulty they're having in leaving Mars behind for good.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Series: WWSYN [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014909
Comments: 123
Kudos: 264





	1. Mission Day 688

**Author's Note:**

> blanket CWs: discussion of suicidal ideation, diet and disordered eating, panic attacks, addiction
> 
> title from Sleeping At Last - Eight

**MISSION DAY 688**

"Blake, status?" The silence yawned around Lexa, and then—

" _Three aboard!_ " Octavia crowed, rendering Lincoln's matter-of-fact "Airlock 2 outer door secured" all but inaudible.

Lexa swallowed hard in a valiant attempt to hold back the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She cleared her throat before glancing over her shoulder to meet Anya and Raven's matching grins. "Copy. Peters, go prep the crew quarters. Reyes, start diagnostics on the VAL breach." 

She turned smoothly, moved by muscle memory to flip a fleet of switches on the comms console, to reaffirm the status of the Earth-bound channel. Her hands hovered over the keyboard for a brief moment before she shook her head and reached for the microphone. The edges of the plastic casing bit into her fingers as she clenched it in a shaky hand and took a deep breath. “CAPCOM, this is Ark Actual, reporting six crew on board. I say again, reporting six crew on board. Ark Actual out.” 

Lexa hung the microphone back on its bracket and leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees and burying her face in her hands. This wasn't— This _couldn't_ be real. The odds of success had been _so_ long—

She gritted her teeth, allowed herself the luxury of a single shuddering exhale into her palms. Then she forced herself to straighten up, to rise from her seat and set her shoulders, to clap Raven on the back as she headed towards the corridor. To hold back the hysterical laughter that threatened to break free when she remembered she'd ordered Lincoln to blow up the ship and that she and Anya would have to wait for it to repressurize before they could exit the bridge.

Lexa startled when an arm was slung around her shoulders. She glanced over just in time to catch the tail end of Anya's eye roll as the pilot pulled her into her side. 

"We did it," Lexa breathed, resisting the urge to press her face into Anya's shoulder.

Anya nodded. "I don't know how the hell we pulled that off," she replied, bemused, "but yeah, we did it. We fucking did it, Lex. We brought her home."

Lexa didn't miss the slip of tongue. She shrugged Anya's arm off as the seal on the bridge entry released, then stepped through, shaking her head. "Don't get cocky, Peters. We're still a hundred million miles away from bringing her home."

They peeled off their separate ways, Lexa pausing to watch Anya as she headed down the hall. There was an ease to her movement that had been missing for months, a fresh roll in her gait and looseness in her shoulders. Lexa wished she could say the same for herself, but her limbs were heavy as granite as she made her way towards Airlock 2.

She dawdled in the hall, hands shaking, listening to Octavia's sharp tones and Lincoln's soft responses. No matter how hard she strained, she couldn't make out a third voice. She waited until the sounds of their movements had gone clear of the airlock before she pulled herself around the corner. It wasn't hiding, it _wasn't_ , she'd swear on her life.

The airlock atrium was thick with the debris of the spacewalk, equipment tugged off and left where it fell, suits piled haphazardly against the wall. The length of tether curled through the mess like a snake in its nest. Typically she'd have torn a strip out of Blake for leaving the space in such a state of disrepair, but it wasn't as though circumstances were anything even bordering on the typical.

Lexa set about tidying away the equipment, strapping down gloves and boots and air canisters, working the kinks from the tether before looping it around her elbow and hanging it. She focused on the minute details, methodical and measured as she positioned boot heels flush with the wall, adjusted velcro ties into perfect alignment. Cleaning was simple, necessary, and at least she felt as though she was doing _something_.

She stubbornly ignored the terror nestled in the back of her head at the thought of what might happen when she had nothing left to occupy her time.

Lexa dealt with the EVA suits last, grabbing Octavia's and checking the seals, working fresh lubricant into the gaskets before stowing it away and following the same routine with Lincoln's. Then she took hold of the third suit, freezing at the feel of it under her hands, coarse with grit. She peeled her fingers away, stared blankly at the regolith staticked to her palms. 

Coming back to herself slowly, Lexa released an unsteady breath and reached for the suit again, tracing shaking fingers over the tally marks drawn in Sharpie on the arms. She resisted the urge to count them, as if she didn't know full well just how many there would be.

Her toes knocked against something as she hung Clarke's suit up beside the others, sending the object spinning across the floor. Lexa snagged the rogue helmet from beside the boot rack and buffed the faceplate with the cuff of her sweater. The mirrored plexiglass glinted in the sharp lighting, reflecting a face she barely recognized back at her, flushed cheeks, drawn mouth, dark-circled eyes below a bird's nest of hair. 

She gazed at the ghastly apparition for a long moment, barely believing it was her own eyes staring back at her despite the reflection aping her every flinch and tic. She half-believed that if she were to look closer, if she could just peer hard enough through the mirrored glass, she'd find Clarke glaring out, pale face wreathed with blood and accusations on her tongue.

The last of her adrenaline leached from her body abruptly and she dropped to the floor, a puppet with its strings cut. She pressed her forehead to the battered helmet and released a shuddering exhale, her bottom lip quivering as she clutched the familiar weight closer to her chest.

Brick by brick she disassembled the remnants of the walls she'd constructed to get herself through the day and finally she allowed the tears to come.

* * *

**MISSION DAY 688 CONT'D**

Octavia had been on the go for hours, since the moment she'd started prepping for her EVA. She'd gone out, gone rogue, brought their girl back, stripped off her suit without a care for tidying it and rushed Clarke down to the medbay. She took a moment, as Clarke perched on the edge of the chair, and grounded herself. Breathed.

A bit too deeply, as it turned out. She gagged at the stench. "Are we sure it's too late to boot you back out the airlock?"

"Hilarious." Clarke appeared to be trying her best to play healthy and whole, but Octavia could see right through her. Almost literally. She stifled a groan at the thought of the work ahead. "Is that what passes for humour around here nowadays?"

"There wasn't much left to make fun of. You kept all the stupid with you." 

"Well, for what little it's worth, I did take a bath yesterday. For all the good that did," Clarke remarked, tugging at a split end. "Had to get all that regolith out of my scalp or I was gonna lose it."

"Scientists back on Earth are fighting each other over the rock samples we bring back, and you're down there scrubbing them out of your hair. Sounds about right." She flicked her penlight on and off absentmindedly, gaze sweeping Clarke head to toe. After the way Clarke had cringed back from her touch when she'd helped strip her of her EVA suit, Octavia was hesitant to approach her without a specific plan of attack. “Any major concerns?”

“Left ankle's fucked."

“Is that all?”

Clarke shrugged, eyes fixed on her lap.

Octavia massaged the bridge of her nose and held back a curse. “Hey, I'm just trying to help. Don't think you'll want me to give you a head-to-toe physical right off the bat. Gonna need you to talk me through it."

Clarke sighed, then winced at the movement. “Hurts here when I breathe," she muttered, gesturing at her right side. 

“Sharp or dull?"

"Dull."

Octavia hummed to herself as she considered her mental decision tree. Dull should mean nothing punctured by fucked up ribs, so she opted for the path of least resistance. Or, rather, the path of least discomfort for Clarke. "First things first, let's get those boots off so I can get a baseline weight, and then we'll have a look at those ribs and that ankle."

She crouched to loosen the laces of Clarke's flight boots, tugging off the right boot first, then taking a bit more care with the left boot, inching it off and trying to cause as little discomfort as possible. At long last she pulled the boot free, upending it in the process, and something clattered out onto the floor. 

Octavia picked it up and raised it to the light. A rock. Some kind of gemstone, maybe. She'd never been all that great at geology. The light glimmered off streaks of blue-green where the outer rock was worn away. “Can't imagine what the issue was," she deadpanned.

Clarke snatched it from her and shoved it in her pocket. “It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

“You crushed your ankle to smuggle 'nothing’ off the surface, huh?”

Clarke shrugged weakly.

Octavia sighed, decided that it was probably easier to just drop it. "Got any other contraband?"

"I had to hack off half the MAV to make weight, but, yeah, sure, I've got another forty pounds of rocks squirreled away in my pockets," Clarke spat. "Did I not mention that? No wonder the intercept vectors were so fucked."

Octavia raised her eyebrows. "You about done?"

Clarke deflated, sinking back into the chair with a groan. "Yeah, O, I'm pretty fucking done."

Octavia gave her a pitying look and pulled up the scale software on her tablet. "Okay, settle down for a sec, you know how finicky this thing gets."

"Shoulda just used the SLAMMD when we came aboard."

"The way you were crawling out of your skin down there? Not likely. No way you'd have been able to stay still enough for it not to yell at you. Alright, there you—" The numbers settled, and the bottom dropped out of Octavia's stomach. " _Fuck_ ," she let slip, tossing the tablet onto the counter. This was… unexpected, to put it lightly. No pun intended.

Clarke cocked an eyebrow. "What's the damage, doc?"

Octavia rubbed at her forehead before blowing out a long breath. "Taking clothing into consideration, you're coming in under forty-two kilos."

Clarke's mouth twisted into a brittle smile. "Remind me to file a patent for the next extreme dieting fad when we get back."

Octavia tried to laugh along with her, but it just felt hollow. She attempted to cover it up with a brusque, "Well, let's get a better look at the damage you've done to that ankle, then." Without a second thought she moved quickly, bent to lift Clarke's foot. 

At the first contact with bare skin at her ankle, Clarke went rigid.

“Griff, it’s okay—”

"I can't—" Clarke jerked her foot away, yelped when it smacks against something, pressed back into the chair, shaking her head. Her body was wracked with shivers. “Blake, don't—”

Octavia stood slowly and took a step back, hands raised at her sides as Clarke imploded. She fought to stay calm and controlled, though all she wanted to do was cry. “Griff, can you take a breath for me, please?”

“— it’s too— It’s just, I’m—”

“ _Clarke_. Babe. Look at me.” Clarke lifted her head, her teeth chattering, fragmented words stumbling from her lips. The sight made Octavia feel as though her heart was being torn from her chest. “Watch me, okay?" She kept her tone soothing as she took a wary step forward. "Watch how I breathe. In nice and slow, hold, out nice and slow. Can you try that for me, sweetheart?”

“O, _please—_ ”

“Watch me, Clarke, okay? Try and match me. Nice and slow, honey, nice and slow.”

Clarke's breathing slowed and she hiccupped through an inhalation. She reached out a shaking hand, pressed her palm flat against the bulkhead and blew out a shuddering breath.

“There you go, babe, just like that. Slow and steady. Good work, Clarke.” Octavia stepped back towards the cupboards but stayed angled towards Clarke and in her line of sight. "I'm going to give you something to take the edge off, alright?"

Clarke's nod was slight, barely discernible. She stared at her lap, hugging herself with one arm, the other still outstretched so she could press her palm to the wall.

"Do you have anything in your system I should know about?" Octavia gathered the necessary supplies as she spoke, her movements so ingrained over the previous months that they verged on automatic. She counted herself lucky that she didn't have time to spare musing over how troubling she should find that fact. "Anything that might not interact well with other meds?"

Clarke scoffed. "Yeah, totally picked up some real good shrooms from the Martians."

"Clarke."

"Vicodin before liftoff."

"That's it?"

Clarke paused, pursing her lips, before nodding her confirmation.

Octavia froze mid-step, unease roiling in her gut at the moment of hesitation. "Is that _all_ , Clarke?"

Clarke scowled. "That's all. Pinky promise."

Octavia bit back a jibe. Probably better not to needle Clarke too much before bringing the _actual_ needle into play.

… Fuck, shitty puns really were contagious.

After some quick mental math, she noted the dosage down in Clarke's chart. She tore open an alcohol swab and then stilled, glanced over at Clarke. "Do you want to do the prep yourself?"

Clarke gritted her teeth and nodded, waiting until Octavia placed the swab on the counter before reaching for it. She swiped at the crook of her arm, discarded the swab and looked sideways at the tourniquet Octavia had ready for her. "Don't think I can do that on my own."

Octavia snorted. "Not likely, but I'd love to watch you try." She stepped forward cautiously, keeping her hands high and clearly visible. "I'm going to touch your arm now, okay?"

Clarke shuddered and stiffened in preparation. It still wasn't enough to keep her from flinching and curling in on herself as Octavia applied the tourniquet.

"Okay, quick break, try and breathe a little for me, yeah?" Octavia turned back to the lab bench to prep the syringe, taking some solace in the sounds of deep breathing from behind her. All too soon she was squaring up face to face with Clarke again. "You ready?"

Clarke smiled wanly. "Born ready."

"Here we go, then." She cupped Clarke's elbow in one hand, pausing for a moment to let her settle before taking hold of Clarke's wrist with her other hand and rotating her forearm as she peered at the crook of Clarke's elbow. "Your veins sure aren't making it easy on me."

"I'm a grower, not a shower."

Octavia rolled her eyes. "You're a _menace_ , is what you are. Oh, there we are, got it." She grabbed the syringe and readjusted her position. "Alright, gonna feel a little pinch in three-" She inserted the needle early, depressing the plunger slow and steady, "two, one. And we're in." 

Clarke cursed under her breath and kicked Octavia in the shin. "You're such an asshole."

"I don't know why you still haven't caught on to that one, Griff. Pretty sure I've pulled that move every single time I've done a blood draw on you and yet here you are, still falling for it."

"What can I say, I'm a sucker for nostalgia." 

"Well, you're a sucker, anyways. Alright, we're gonna give that just a moment longer to—" Clarke sank back into the chair, head lolling to the side. "And there we go." The plunger bottomed out and Octavia removed the needle, pressed a wad of gauze to the wound and secured it with a strip of tape before disposing of the sharp.

Clarke mumbled something, low and incomprehensible, as Octavia moved around the room. 

"Sorry, Griff, I didn't catch that."

"Wasn't for—" Clarke shook her head, fixated on her hand as she bounced her flat palm off the seat. "Never mind."

Octavia could already feel a headache coming, so she opted not to press the issue. "Are you ready for me to take another look at your ankle?" Clarke didn't look up. "Clarke? Can I take another look at your ankle now?"

"Just do it." 

"Alright. I'm going to touch your leg now. This might hurt. I need you to tell me if there's a sharp pain, or if something I do makes it worse. Understood?"

"Yeah, yeah." Clarke seemed far more engrossed in following the movement of her hand than in anything Octavia had to say or do, not reacting when Octavia cradled her calf in a careful hand.

Clarke's ankle was far too warm to the touch. Octavia palpated the area gently, keeping an eye on the visible portion of Clarke's face to gauge her pain levels. Nothing showed through, even when Octavia hit the margins of the darkest segment of the bruising.

She swore under her breath, glancing over at the vial of ketamine. The dosage was appropriate for body mass; it should have been enough to take the edge off without sending her spiralling. Stomach contents wouldn't have had an impact since it had been administered by IV—

She shook herself free of that line of thought. Spaced out and distant, dissociative, all were to be expected from ketamine. As long as Clarke was awake and mostly aware, there were bigger issues at hand. 

_"At foot,"_ she figured Clarke would correct, the little bastard.

She turned her focus back to Clarke's ankle, moved the joint through its newly limited range of motion. There was no popping, no grinding, no stomach-turning unnatural give to the ligaments. Her skin was bruised and bloodied, swollen and rubbed raw. All told, a minor sprain and surface damage, nothing more. Small mercies. 

"Now, I'm gonna need to get a look at those ribs."

Clarke shook her head. "No, 's fine," she slurred, "They're fine."

Octavia barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes, and failed outright at holding in a groan. "You want to take a shot at washing up, and then we'll circle back to that?"

“M’kay.”

A sigh snuck from Octavia’s mouth when it became clear Clarke wasn’t going to make the first move. “Gonna need to get your shirts off to make that happen, babe.”

“Buy me dinner first,” Clarke mumbled absently, and Octavia barked out a laugh.

“Pretty sure you’re easier than that.” She chivvied Clarke out of her layers, doing her best not to make contact with Clarke’s bare skin. “I know for a fact you’ve stripped on the promise of a slice of pizza.”

“It was really good ‘za.”

“I’d certainly hope so.” Octavia snagged a washcloth from the cupboard and soaked it before motioning towards Clarke. “Do you think it would be better if you did the scrubbing?"

Clarke hummed her agreement and reached for the cloth. The movement sent her off balance and she pitched forward, slipping off the chair, Octavia only just catching her under the armpits in time to stop her dropping to the ground. So much for keeping her distance. Clarke flinched back with a harsh breath, and something clenched in Octavia’s chest.

“Keep those nice slow breaths for me, honey. Is it okay if I put my hand on your elbow?” Clarke nodded but still let out a squeak as Octavia shifted her grip. “There we go, that’s not too bad, hey? How's your ankle?"

"'m fine," she gritted out, looking anything but.

“Yeah, yeah, big tough Griff, I know.” Octavia shook her head. “It would just put _me_ more at ease if you were transparent, okay? I don't like being worried.”

“I need to sit.”

“Okay. We can do that.”

Once she had Clarke settled back up on the exam table, Octavia busied herself retrieving a blanket from the cupboard. She draped it around Clarke's shoulders, noting how narrow they were, how hunched in on herself she sat. The pressure sores and bruising that dotted her skin. At least it was just the normal blue-yellow of bruising at her ribs, not the darker spread indicative of internal bleeding. It hit her hard in that moment just how much work they had ahead of them. 

A knock at the door broke her from her critical gaze. At her side, Clarke flinched and folded in on herself, and Octavia debated answering for a moment. The decision was made for her, the door sliding open to reveal Anya. 

She took in the pair of them with a raised eyebrow and a broad grin. “You look like shit, Griffin.”

Clarke flopped her head around so she could glare at the pilot. “Nice to see you too, asshole.”

“Bold move to go tarps off the second you got on board.”

“Y’know how it is. Finally home, boobs will roam.”

Anya chuckled and rolled her eyes. "Dumbass," she said fondly, "I'm glad you're not dead."

"Same here, fuckface, same here." Clarke blew a sloppy kiss towards the door, but went rigid in her seat when Anya stepped forward to mime grabbing it out of the air.

The reaction made Octavia's hackles rise. Her mouth twisted sourly for a moment and then she quirked her brows and tilted her head a degree towards the bridge. 

Anya, the absolute saint, caught the drift immediately and gave her an almost imperceptible nod before addressing Clarke. "I've gotta go see a girl about a bomb, but I can drop by tonight if you think you'd be up for it."

Clarke waved her off. "Yeah, yeah, go be a functioning member of the crew." She didn't take her eyes off Anya until the door clicked shut behind her, and then she levelled a stare at Octavia. "You assholes actually blew the ship up. I thought maybe it was a bad joke, but you legitimately made a bomb. What the actual _fuck_." Clarke balled up the washcloth in her hand and scrubbed fiercely at her skin. "And here I thought I was the queen of bad ideas."

"Well, looks like the rest of us have got you beat there," Octavia replied, scrambling to find something, _anything_ to say to change the subject and lighten the mood. Her eyes fell to the space just beneath Clarke's collarbone, exposed where the blanket had fallen away, and she laughed. “Speaking of bad ideas, I still can't believe you got your boob tattooed."

The eye roll she received in response seemed to demand a lot of effort from Clarke, but at least it was accompanied by a lopsided smile. “Boob- _adjacent_ ," she corrected, haughty.

“Oh. Yeah. Right.”

Clarke laughed hollowly and poked at her chest. “And what boob, really. Not like I have anything left to write home about.”

“Is that something you want? I could write Bellamy, tell him I got to cop a feel.”

“Ew, don't even joke about that."

"Noted." Octavia broke eye contact, her gaze drifting instead to a spackle of dark spots on Clarke's side. It was too dark and the edges too distinct to be bruising or a hematoma, but she couldn't get a better look until Clarke moved her hand to scrub at her shoulder. A tattoo? “I thought the landing number was your only ink.”

“It is.”

“What's on your side, then?”

Panic flashed across Clarke's face for a brief moment before she shot her hand over to cover the spot. “Hmm?”

“Super subtle, Griff.”

She sighed and let her hand fall away. 

Octavia leaned in, the tip of her index finger hovering above Clarke's side, careful not to make contact. Her heart crawled into her throat as she followed the shaky lines that connected nine pinpoint stars. “You do that yourself?”

“Didn't exactly have anyone else around to do it for me, now, did I?”

Anger rose sharp and thorny in her chest, but she swallowed it down just as quickly, battled to keep her voice level. “You're lucky the blowout was your biggest issue.”

“Yeah, well, from certain angles luck doesn't look to be something I'm short of.”

“Any other self-flagellation I should know about?”

Clarke scratched at the crook of her elbow and shrugged a shoulder. “The steady diet of potatoes would probably be classified as an eating disorder, if it weren't NASA-mandated.”

“Weak jokes.”

Clarke hummed her agreement. “To be fair, it's hard to practice my stand-up when my audience is just a bunch of couch potatoes.”

Octavia reeled back with a groan. “For fuck's sake. I actually hate you so much right now. Gimme a second, I'm gonna go get the commander's go ahead to boot you right back out of the airlock myself. That was _awful_.”

She didn't miss the way Clarke stiffened at the mention of Lexa. How her gaze flicked towards the command deck. Clarke tried to play off her next words as casual but fell far short. "How is sh— everyone. How's everyone doing?"

Octavia screwed up her mouth, weighing her answer carefully. "We’re surviving," she said finally, heavy and tired, the exhaustion striking her like a hammer. "We're all surviving.”

* * *

 **AUDIO LOG:** **GRIFFIN, C.** ~~**SOL 562** ~~ **MISSION DAY 688, 2213 hours.**

I can't sleep. 

This is hour… 23, maybe?... since I woke up in the rover on launch day. It's hard to tell, my sol cycle wasn't exactly synced with the Ark's clock… Anyways, it's not that I'm not tired, because I _am_ , I'm fucking _exhausted_ , but I just… I can't sleep.

Sleeping curled up next to the water reclaimer and oxygenator wasn't exactly the quietest thing on the planet, especially given that the rest of the planet was, y'know, _empty_ , but it was consistent. Faded into background static by the end of it

The Ark used to be just as familiar, but she's been ridden hard and put away wet since our trip out. Which is putting it a bit lightly. They blew her up, which I still can't fucking believe is a thing that actually happened. She groans now, and I hope to fuck that it's just her hull plates adjusting to minor changes in temperature, but it's still got me crawling half out of my skin with anxiety. And there's a buzz just down from here, I don't know if the mike can pick it up, but I think a heating coil in the atmospheric regulator might be on the fritz. And someone's doubled up in Raven's bunk, and they've been whispering at that level that's just loud enough to hear while still being incomprehensible and I just wish they'd shut _up_.

Someone's been lurking on and off outside the door. The floor panel two yards down the corridor still creaks when somebody steps on it, but I don't recognize anyone's gait anymore, so I've no clue who it is. It's throwing me for a loop.

And them being out there means I can't go to the mess area to occupy my time, because…

Well, because, if I'm being honest, the sight of anyone else makes my spine turn to ice. And the way they look at me like I'm going to fall to pieces if they even just breathe funny. I can't fucking bear it.

Part of me wishes that I—

Yeah, no. Let's not— Don't fucking go _there_ , Clarke. Fuck.

It's just, I used to know the Ark like the back of my hand and now— And— And now she doesn't feel like home anymore.

 _Fuck_ and that fucking _buzz_. Blake said she didn't hear anything but it's there and every time I become aware of it I can't stop thinking about it and it's so _loud_. I just want to fucking sleep, but that's apparently too much to fucking ask.

I'm just so fucking tired. Physically and mentally and emotionally. Drained.

And, yeah, everyone's looking at me like I'm going to fall to pieces, but at least they're looking at me. Unlike Lexa, who has yet to make an appearance.

Lincoln kept trying to tell me that she's just been on comms with NASA, but he's a shit liar. I know the message transfer windows backwards and forwards. She'd have plenty of time to stop by, if she had the inclination. She's avoiding me, straight up. 

You know what, though? I get it. I really do. The danger the crew's gone through, and I'm all they got out of it? She's probably realizing I'm not going to be the person they left behind. She's probably realizing she ought to have left me on Mars.

I—

I sure would have.


	2. Mission Day 689

**MISSION DAY 689**

The smell of freshly-brewed coffee greeted Octavia when she stumbled onto the bridge for her morning debrief. She ceased rubbing at her eyes in favour of making grabby hands at Lexa until she delivered a mug to her. The warmth suffused her palms and she gave a contented sigh before raising the mug to her face and inhaling deeply. Something primal arose in her chest at the aroma and she snapped her head up to stare at Lexa.

"I don't believe it. You've been holding out on us, Callaghan."

Lexa at least had the decency to look marginally embarrassed. As well she should, the traitor. "Command only sent a limited supply up on the shuttle. Thought I'd save it for special occasions. If I'd let you heathens have free rein of it, it'd have been gone within the first thirty-six hours."

Octavia pursed her lips in consideration, then ceded the point with a slight nod. "That checks out. Raven probably would've injected it straight into her bloodstream." She took a sip and all but groaned at the silkiness on her tongue, inordinately pleasing after months of chalky, sour instant coffee. It'd been all shelf-stable garbage water all the time for ages, even before Mars. From launch, everyone had avoided it like the plague, beelining for the grounds day after day, and they'd realized far too late the corner into which they were drinking themselves. When Anya had swiped the last cup of real coffee out from under Raven's nose, it'd almost come to blows. Which was something the commander would certainly want to avoid this time around. She fixed Lexa with a calculating look. "Just how limited are we talking?"

Lexa shook her head, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. "Nice try, but no dice. That's for my eyes only. We're not going to have a repeat of the Great Skittles Heist of Day 235, understood?"

"Wilco," she grumbled against the lip of the mug. "If that's the case, I'm assuming we're not mentioning this to the shitshow duo?"

"I'm sorry, the _what_?"

"Reyes and Peters."

"Ah." Lexa chuckled under her breath, shaking her head. "Yeah, no. You assumed correctly. If Schmidt's lucky, I might read him in."

"He doesn't even drink coffee."

Lexa wrinkled her nose. "I'd forgotten. I've just been acting under the assumption that he doesn't drink _bad_ coffee."

"Nope, he's just an all-around monster."

Lexa looked towards the sleeping pods, narrowing her eyes like she was re-evaluating him across the distance. Octavia wasn't entirely sure whether she was even aware what she was doing. After a moment she shrugged. "To each his own, I guess. More for us." She took a swig, then set her empty mug on the desktop, spinning it idly on the edge of its base.

Silence stretched between them, Lexa growing more and more tense in her periphery as Octavia sipped her coffee and kept her gaze forward. She braced herself as best she could against the fatigue that had rooted itself deep in her bones. She didn't want to even try to calculate how long she'd been awake. 'Too long' was more than enough of an answer.

When Lexa finally spoke up her voice was strained, as though she were fighting to keep it level. Octavia could empathise with that feeling all too well. "Want to give me the update on Griffin?"

Octavia grimaced into her mug. "She's in worse shape than I'd anticipated. Not that I expected her to jump out of her EVA suit and dance a jig or anything, but I thought we'd have a bit more of a base to work from.

"She was days from outright starvation and she's got severe weight loss to show for it. Pressure sores and skin lesions thanks to the combination of minimal hygiene and suit pressure points. She sustained some minor injuries during the retrieval as well, cracked ribs and damage to her ankle. And—" She took another sip of her coffee, knowing full well that Lexa could see right through the delay tactic but continuing with it anyways. After a moment she raised her chin, set her shoulders, and settled back into the debrief mindset, shoving the ache in her chest to her mind's backburner. "And I won't get into the psychological trauma. Even with Jackson's seminars, I'm not about to pretend that I'm not completely out of my depth here."

Lexa shared a bitter smile with her. "Whether you sink or you swim, Blake, we'll be right beside you." She dropped her mug flat on to the desktop, flinching at the noise. "Have you settled on a treatment plan?"

Octavia nodded, trying to keep her relief that Lexa hadn't pressed the point off her face. At least the physiological side of the puzzle provided her with a firmer knowledge base to stand on. "I was up all night on comms with the medical team back on Earth, going over my notes and bouncing ideas off each other. Priority one is getting her back up to weight safely. She had an ample supply of supplements to maintain micronutrient levels, so we hopefully shouldn't have any issues with refeeding syndrome as we up her caloric intake. The literature in the field isn't exactly comprehensive, though, so I've got a continuous serum monitor on her to be safe. It'll ping me if anything starts going sideways. A couple days and we should be out of that danger zone, but the other injuries complicate nutritional demands in a whole separate way. We'll have to be stringent with her in regards to meeting her numbers every day; if she's not hitting her calories it'll only prolong this."

Lexa stiffened, her hands going tight around the mug. "Has she said something to make you think she'd purposefully undereat?" she asked, her tone forcibly casual.

"Undereat, overeat, I don't know what to expect here. I'm not a nutritionist, so my head's not exactly above the water with this sort of thing either. I'm just covering the bases about how we approach this. Whatever the circumstance may be, we've got to get her back to a healthy weight with minimal risk. Once we're there, we can focus on getting the rest of her healthy."

Lexa's mouth twisted. "And the psychological stuff, does that fall under 'the rest of her'?"

"I don't think it's something we can really separate out. It's knotted right in there with everything else. I messaged Jackson last night, but he couldn't give many recommendations without having spoken with her. Just said the same old stuff: give her space, time, structure, support. He sent me some forms for her to go through to bring him up to speed, as well."

"Has he scheduled a time to meet with her?"

"It won't be feasible for months, not with the transmission delays. He'll be available to her over text, but there's not much he can do beyond that at this point. So it falls to us to do the best we can with the tools he's given us."

Lexa's throat bobbed as she swallowed, and there was a new stiffness to her jaw when she nodded her understanding. "And you can take point ship-side on that as well? In addition to the nutritional plans?"

"I'm going to have to delay some of my research projects, but yeah, that should be fine."

"I'll reach out to Gustus for you, then, and ask him what's lowest priority on your docket."

"Already handled that last night."

A muscle in Lexa's cheek jumped, as good as an outright statement of upset, though Octavia wasn't anywhere near coherent enough to try and parse the reasons behind it. "Ten-four. Anything further to report?"

"Other than that, it's all quiet on the stellar front." She went to take a sip of coffee, directing a glare at the bottom of the mug when it came up empty.

"You'll keep me up to date as things progress?"

"Of course."

"Good. Keep up the great work." 

Octavia spared a glance towards the door before taking a step towards Lexa. "So, we're just ignoring the elephant in the room, are we?"

Lexa pushed herself up off the console with a heavy sigh. "I'm not sure what you want me to say, Blake."

"You could fucking address it instead of saving it to throw in my face months from now."

"Sure, then. You want to pick a fight, let's have a go." Lexa folded her arms across her chest and stared down her nose at Octavia. "You put all of us at risk pulling that stunt," she said, voice flat and affectless.

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Oh, forgive me for not singing your praises for breaking a fundamental law of space travel and _barely_ scraping through."

"I did what I had to do to get her back."

"We were ten inches from becoming the four man crew of a blown-up ship and short our doctor and EVA specialist."

"And what would you rather I had done? Reached the end of the tether and waved at her as she drifted by just out of my reach?"

"I'd rather you hadn't gotten it into your head that you had to be the big damn hero, and instead considered the potential ramifications of your actions."

"There was no other option. You had to know that either I was coming back with her or I wasn't coming back at all."

"That's all well and good for someone who wouldn't have had to deal with the bind you'd have left us in."

"Yeah, alright, I didn't take a second to consider how that would affect the crew. Because all I had was one fucking second to drop tether, and the only thing that crossed _my_ mind was the fact I'd never fucking forgive myself if I came that close only to fall short. If I failed her.

"And, you know what? You wouldn't have forgiven me either. Look me in the eye and tell me you'd still be able to stomach being in the same room with me if I'd left her to die. So you don't get to be Commander High-and-Mighty about this. Not when I got her back. Not when _you_ did the exact same thing when you set us on the course back here in the first place, you fucking hypocrite."

Lexa tilted her head forward and massaged the bridge of her nose. "Anything else you need to get out of your system?" she asked coldly.

"No, ma'am," Octavia snapped.

"Good." She raised her head to meet Octavia's gaze with hard eyes. "Cards on the table? From where I'm standing, everything you did out there was above board. I would _never_ hold it against you. You needed a sounding board so you could work that out for yourself, so I let you. Better you pick a fight with me than anyone else on this ship. 

"I get that you're rundown and exhausted, Blake. You of all people have the right to be. But taking it out on me like that? That's your one free shot. Don't doubt that the next time you feel like taking a swing there will be consequences. Understood?"

Octavia nodded sharply.

"I'm sure you want to get your last few tasks wrapped up so you can grab some rack time."

"Wilco, Commander," Octavia gritted out, and turned on her heel and left.

* * *

Octavia knocked gently on Clarke's door frame, sliding the door open when she didn't receive a response. 

Clarke was twisted up in her sheets, almost invisible amongst them save for a shock of blonde hair and an outstretched foot. Octavia crossed the room and rapped her knuckles against the bulkhead. "Griffin." 

Clarke stirred slightly and pulled her pillow over her head, slurring something unintelligible into her mattress.

She knocked on the bulkhead again, louder this time. "Griffin, it's time to wake up," she said sharply.

Clarke mumbled once more, one hand going to her face, and then there was a sharp gasp, a flurry of movement. Clarke catapulted upright, the hand at her face covering her mouth, the other patting at the mattress at her side. She rolled from the bed, taking the covers with her, stretched out to grab for… something. Octavia wasn't really sure what. Instead, her hand found Octavia's ankle. There was a moment of calm, and then Clarke fell all over herself to spring backwards, to scramble away. Her breaths came short and quick and her eyes were wild with panic.

"Clarke, sweetheart, it's just me."

Clarke moved slowly, carefully, back onto the bed. She distanced herself from the edge of the mattress, scooted her body until her back was pressed to the wall. On second thought, it might not have been the mattress edge that Clarke was pulling away from. A sour taste bloomed in the back of Octavia's throat at the realisation. "Give— girl— some— warning," Clarke worked out between breaths. She made an attempt at a joking tone, at a smile, but both fell flat. 

"Sorry, sorry. If you'd agreed to stay in the medbay—"

“Too hard— Too much to—” She shook her head harshly and hugged her knees to her chest, and then cringed, eyes going wider. She swore under her breath, pushing her legs back out straight and pressing a hand to her side. "Don't."

"Breathe, Clarke. Your rib shouldn't be hurting you that much, not with the hydromorphone drip. Is the pain constant, or just when you move?"

"Move." 

"Then maybe don't move."

"Asshole," Clarke growled in response, but Octavia was pleased to find a fragment of a smile.

"Can you take a breath for me? Deep as you can without pain." She watched Clarke's face closely as she did so, searched for any further signs of discomfort and came up empty. "Good, good. I want you to make sure you're breathing as deeply as possible, alright? Last thing you need right now is pneumonia on top of everything else."

"Be just my luck."

"Well, yeah, so if you could avoid it that'd be great." She pulled a packet of meal replacement from her pocket and shook it, drawing Clarke's attention. "Brought you breakfast." She placed it on the mattress. Clarke didn't reach for it until she'd moved her hand away.

"Mm, sludge, my favourite." She cracked it open all the same and took a few sips before capping it and dropping it beside her. 

The sachet was obviously still half-full, and Octavia glared at it to keep herself from glaring at Clarke. "Make sure you finish that in the next hour, okay?"

"Yes, _Mom_." She could all but hear the eyeroll.

She grabbed the IV bag and gestured towards Clarke's arm. "I need to swap this out for you and then I'll be out of your hair. It'll just take a second. Are you going to be okay with that, or do you want me to sedate you?"

Clarke tracked her movement, looking like she was barely listening, took a second before shaking her head. "I'll be fine." She busied herself fixing her blankets, then slid back into them, steadfastly avoiding Octavia's eyes. When she was settled she thrust her arm out, face turned towards the wall.

She hung the bag on the hook at the head of the bunk, set up the tubing. "I'm going to touch your arm now, okay?" 

Clarke didn't react, so there was nothing for Octavia to do but move. Quick and careful as she could, removing the old setup, setting up the tubing, easing up on the dial until she'd gotten rid of the air bubbles. The reddened scratches around the IV cannula at Clarke's elbow gave her pause for a moment. Surgical tape to keep it tight to Clarke's arm, not that she expected her to be up and about and snagging it on something, but it was Clarke, so… She added another strip of tape. 

"Try to leave it alone this time, okay?"

Clarke didn't respond. She might even have fallen back asleep already. Octavia felt a pang of jealousy as she yawned into the crook of her elbow. 

She barely made it to her own cabin. She knew she'd conk right out the moment her body came within forty degrees of horizontal so she propped herself up against the door until she got a comms channel open. "Hey, Rae, I'm gonna grab a couple hours of shut-eye. I uploaded her nutrition schedule to the shared drive for reference. Drop in on her later, would you? Make sure she eats when she's meant to, and let me know if anything happens."

She waited just long enough to catch the affirmative response before she dove into bed and let sleep take her.

* * *

The alert tone of her communicator stirred Clarke from her restless haze. She rolled over onto her front and nudged the device strapped to her wrist with her chin, opening the channel. "Whaaaat," she grumbled, her eyes drifting back shut as she shoved her face into a mattress that was ten times more comfortable than it had any right to be. She would have sworn it'd never been this soft before, though who knew how much sleeping balled up in a rover might have skewed her expectations.

"Clarkey-Clarke, my guy, my dude, my pal, this is just a courtesy call to let you know that you're making us look bad," Raven responded, her shit-eating grin clearly evident in her tone. "We had a funeral for you and everything."

"Sorry my survival is so disappointing to you."

"I eulogized you. We all did. God, that's so embarrassing. You're never gonna let us live those down."

Clarke lifted her head up with a lopsided smile. "I didn't actually know about that. Thanks for the heads up. The video files will be on the crew drive, yeah?"

Raven cursed loudly. "Give me a second to delete those."

"Did you cry? Please tell me you cried."

"Yes, Clarke, I bawled my eyes out while I waxed poetic about the loss of your tits."

"Well, if that's the case, that eulogy is still appropriate. Those babies are long gone."

"Rest in peace, good earth cleavage. I hardly knew ye."

Clarke groaned into her pillow. "Was there a point to this call, or did you just feel like annoying me?"

"O said we should give you a heads-up before anyone stopped in on you if we weren't in the mood to get shanked."

"I'm sure she did."

"Well, not in so many words, but the implication was clear enough. Anyways, Linc should be around in a few with your next meal, so try not to murder him, yeah?"

"I'll do my best."

* * *

**AUDIO LOG: GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 689, 1247 hours.**

Lincoln just dropped off another meal replacement bevy. Or sludge, as we've taken to calling it. No word of a lie, I actually used to like them. But then O gave me one last night, and I dunno, the taste was off or something? And I don't know if it's the drink that's different or if it's me that's different—

Like I'm obviously different but is it different too? Is it me or is it you? 

Right, meal replacement. Yes. Last night's was gross, the ones today were also. Gross. It's so gross. Like, I-can-hardly-keep-it-down gross. Which, it shouldn't be. They specifically picked supplies that we liked. Well, supplies we _said_ we liked. 

Funny story, Raven actually hates the scrambled eggs but she's a massive asshole who loves chaos. The more y'know. 

Or maybe she knows that if there's not—

Ha, there's not. There, snot—

What was I— Yeah, right, gotta build faults into the system so that cracks start forming where they're visible and not deep in the foundation. Something like that. Get pissed over scrambled eggs instead of harbouring a grudge about something else until you explode in the middle of an EVA. We're nothing if not safety conscious here at NASA. 

Probably overthinking it though. Or underthinking it? Having a bit of trouble getting my thoughts in order. I dunno what O put in my IV, but it's maybe kinda fucking me up just a little tiny bit. Possibly.

Anyways. Sludge. Was good, now awful. Almost threw up on Linc. Did throw up a lil in my mouth. Is it that it's gross, or that it's too not-gross? Like, this bitch ate painkiller-crusted po-tay-toes, boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew. Can't get much grosser than that.

'Cept for the taste of blueberry sludge as it comes back up. Two meals for the price of one.

* * *

Octavia's mouth was bone-dry when she awoke. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and nosed at the screen of her communicator until it exited sleep mode. The clock blinked in the corner of the far-too-bright screen and she swore loudly. A couple hours of rest had somehow turned into a solid eleven. She was glad they were operating on the military clock, otherwise she's sure she'd have woken in a panic thinking she'd slept through a whole day. 

Not that panic wasn't rising quickly in her chest anyways. She flung an arm out, blindly grabbing her tablet from its velcro pouch at her bedside, and pulled up the crew's biomarkers. 

Clarke's heart rate had been seesawing all day, though she'd been asleep through most of it. There were peaks in her heart rate and breathing rate that closely correlated with the increased delta wave activity indicative of REM sleep. The elevations in both rates seemed abnormal, and a quick flick back through Clarke's historical data confirmed her suspicions. Octavia tried in vain to ignore the pangs in her chest as she counted the instances. Twelve. Twelve times something in Clarke's dreams had been jarring enough that it'd woken her outright. That wasn't exactly ideal.

Octavia ran a cursory check of the other four as she took sips from her water bottle, flipping through the screens with barely enough time to catch the highlights. Stress markers were elevated across the board, but at least Lincoln and Raven had had the decency to get some sleep the previous night. Anya had tried and failed, which wasn't unexpected, and appeared to have made up some of the deficit with a couple of catnaps. Her fingers stilled on the final screen, eyes darting across the array of plots and tables. She dragged a hand down her face with a sigh before making quick work of sending a comms request.

"Blake?"

"You gonna go to bed any time soon, or do I have to come over there and dropkick you into oblivion myself?"

Lexa didn't acknowledge her beyond a grunt.

" _Commander_ ," she chided, pressing her fingertips into her temples.

"I have work I need to attend to."

"Whatever it is can wait half a day. And it'll be done better with a good night's sleep under your belt."

"CAPCOM'S expecting it in a few hours."

"Well, Gus is just going to have to learn to deal with disappointment, because that's not happening. As your physician, I strongly recommend that you go the fuck to sleep."

"And as your commanding officer, I strongly recommend you back off."

"You're gonna have to take a break sometime, Lexa."

The only response she received was the click of Lexa closing the channel.

* * *

"Lexa?" Anya's voice came from far too close by, and then a hand tugged Lexa's fist out from under her chin. She couldn't catch herself before her face hit the desktop, so when she whirled on the intruder it was with a smarting cheek and split lip.

Anya raised her hands, wincing in commiseration. "Sorry, sorry. I expected you to have _some_ semblance of a reaction time."

Lexa glared at her as she dabbed at her lip with the cuff of her sleeve. "What do you want, Peters?"

"Demoted to a last-name basis again, huh? You wound me." 

" _What do you want?_ "

"I was just wondering, were you planning on staying awake for the next eight months? If so, would you be so kind as to schedule your mental breakdown to coincide with Raven's birthday? It'd really help me out in the gift-giving department."

Lexa dropped her head back to the desk. "Do the lot of you do anything other than gossip about me over comms?" she asked, petulant, her words muffled against the desktop.

"We have a group chat, too."

"Of course you do." Lexa turned her head just enough to make eye contact. "I'm fine, Anya. I just need to get these reports done for Gustus." She gestured broadly at the screen in front of her, patted at the keyboard her head rested just shy of. "Top priority."

"And then you'll go to bed?"

She pushed herself upright, her jaw cracking as she did a terrible job of hiding a yawn behind her hand. "Well, then I need to crunch the numbers on—"

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Anya reached over Lexa's shoulder, ignoring her feeble protests, and switched off the monitor. "This isn't good for you, Lexa."

"Because you're such a paragon of health."

Anya rolled her eyes. "Don't be intentionally obtuse."

"I'll go to sleep once I wrap up a couple things, okay?"

"We both know that's a lie." Anya boosted herself up onto the desktop, kicking her legs for a moment before she nudged Lexa with the toe of her shoe. "You're going to have to see her at some point. Delaying that because you're an emotionally-stunted dumbass with maladjusted coping mechanisms won't do either of you any good."

"I'm not—"

"Oh, don't you dare try that on me. I know you, Lexa. You compartmentalize. A box for the operational, a box for the interpersonal. And as long as you're focused on an op you don't have to confront anything else you might be feeling. But you'll have to stop working sooner or later. This isn't sustainable."

Lexa leaned back in her chair, sighing heavily, and rubbed at the back of her neck. "Do you think I don't know that?"

"I imagine you're well aware of that fact," Anya snapped. "I think you're just too afraid to admit it to yourself."

"That's not—" Lexa started, loud and abrupt, rising half out of her seat before she could catch herself. She lowered her voice, glanced over her shoulder as she sunk back down. "That's not what scares me."

"Then pray tell, Lexa, because I've been racking my brain trying to understand your hesitance here and I just don't get it. By all rights you should be throwing a fucking party. And I don't mean this pity party you've got going on in here. What gives?"

Lexa rolled her head from side to side then stilled, shoulders tight and eyes glued to her lap. "I left her to die," she replied in a tone that should have brooked no argument.

Anya bulldozed on regardless. "Is that really what you're hung up on?" She shook her head, massaged the bridge of her nose. "You're telling me that you're avoiding a _living_ , _breathing_ Clarke Griffin because you 'left her to die' on a planet that, newsflash, _we just picked her up from._ That's what you're going with?"

Lexa shrunk even further in on herself, dropping her face into her hands, her nails pressing blanched crescent moons into her forehead.

Anya booted her in the thigh when it became clear that no response was forthcoming. "That's not what's got you scared shitless, kid."

Lexa's words came muffled by her palms. "If I don't face up to her, then I don't have to hear her blame me. Okay? NASA blaming me, sure, whatever, I am _long_ past the point of caring about what anyone in that organization thinks of me. But her? No way I could bear it."

Anya spluttered, scoffed, stared wide-eyed at Lexa. Finally, she shook her head and slipped down off the bench top, shaking her head. " _Jesus Christ—_ Lexa, you're my favourite, and if it were any other day I'd try to help you unpack all of… _that_... but right now I do _not_ have the energy necessary to walk you through the myriad reasons why that's utter bullshit. I'm going to bed. If you could figure yourself out before I wake up again, that'd be fucking great." She slapped Lexa's shoulder solidly and fled the room, leaving a last choked comment of "No helping some people" in her wake.

Lexa sat motionless for a moment, her mind abuzz. Then she nodded to herself, resolute, and rose to follow in Anya's wake.

* * *

Lexa paced up the hallway and back again, her fingers tapping anxiously at the sides of her legs as she moved. She forced her gaze to stay forward, off the nameplates adhered to the bulkhead beside each cabin. Off the door she was too… too _afraid_ to knock on. Call it what it really was. Commander Callaghan letting fear get the better of her. When had she become this person?

On her next lap, she forced herself to halt in front of the door she'd avoided looking at for over a year. Her fingertips beat out a staccato against her thighs until she drew her focus to her hands, curled them into fists, dug her fingernails into her palms. The short burst of pain grounded her, settled her, and she took advantage of the momentary lapse in her fear spiral. 

The rap of her knuckles on the metal resounded through the hallway, setting her teeth on edge.

"Come in!" 

Lexa swayed slightly, barely catching herself as her knees turned to jelly. The feeling she'd gotten at hearing Clarke over comms had been bad enough, had struck her hard in the sternum, had torn her open and made a home within her ribcage, but this? Without the distortion of radio static, the barrier a thin wall instead of the vacuum of space? This was a whole other monster to battle.

She straightened her back, set her mouth, and rose to the occasion.

"Hey," she started as she pulled the door open. And then she stilled on the threshold, hands clenched behind her back, all the air ripped from her chest at the sight of Clarke. Emotion swept through her, a tsunami that swamped her heart and set her bottom lip aquiver. She bit down hard to stop it, and blood seeped from the split corner, iron on her tongue. It took her another moment to realize there was someone else in the room, and only because he cleared his throat. "Schmidt, sorry, I didn't realise you were in here. I can come back later—"

"No, no," Lincoln replied, "I'll get out of your way. I was just about to go." He said his goodbyes as he rose from his seat on the edge of Clarke's bed, then slipped past Lexa and out the door with a nod and a comforting pat on the shoulder.

She struggled to regain her composure, an almost insurmountable ask when all her attention was focused on Clarke. Something long buried stirred deep within her chest, begging, pleading, but she muscled it down, packed it back up tightly. Instead, she gave a jerky wave. "Welcome aboard, Griffin."

Clarke lifted her head and smiled weakly, and Lexa felt the distinct urge to scream into her hands. "Good to be back, Commander."

Lexa glanced around the room, nodding to herself as she looked anywhere but towards Clarke. "So, how about that weather, eh?" 

"Oh my god, stop hovering and get over here, you moron."

She crossed the room, stuffed her hands in her pockets to stop herself from caving to every muscle and tendon that ached for her to reach out. She rocked from heel to toe and back again, jerky and uncoordinated before Clarke finally took pity on her and tilted her head towards the bed. Lexa perched on the edge of the mattress facing Clarke, one leg tucked up under her, the other foot planted on the floor. She settled in, hyper aware of the margins of Clarke's body beneath the blankets, carefully maintaining distance between them. A demilitarized zone that rendered the emotions warring in Lexa's chest inert.

The angle at which her hands were still wedged into her pockets made them ache, but she buried the discomfort deep. She took a second to centre herself, and then raised her head to meet Clarke's eyes. It wasn't enough. How could she have fooled herself into thinking that a single breath could ever be enough to prepare her for that moment.

Clarke's gaze felt almost _normal_. More like Lexa had just popped by to give her a ride to an afternoon training session, rather than picked her up after a year and a half of abandonment. Clarke smiled softly, and Lexa tried her best to mirror it as she blinked away the tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. "Hey, you," she breathed, all too aware of how inane she sounded but hard-pressed to gather her thoughts enough to find any other words. 

"Hey yourself," Clarke replied, the ghost of a smirk on her lips complementing the laughter in her eyes. 

"How are you feeling?"

"Ugh, please tell me we're not going to do the whole small talk thing."

Lexa shrugged, the corner of her lip quirking up. 

Clarke sighed. "Fine. Be like that. I'm exhausted and in pain. Not gonna be the best company right now. Lincoln put some of the good stuff in my IV drip, so I'm probably gonna pass out again soon."

"The fact that you're even here to be any kind of company is—" She shook her head, choked up, cleared her throat before continuing. "I'm sorry I didn't stop by earlier. Gus and company have been running me ragged." She freed a hand from a pocket and reached towards Clarke.

Clarke flinched away.

Lexa snatched her hand back, clenched it into a fist that she thumped on her thigh a couple of times. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. "Sorry," she mumbled, her face burning with regret. "I'm sorry." She dipped her head to try and catch Clarke's eye, but Clarke stared past her, absent, almost out-of-body. "Griffin—"

"Is this real?" Clarke interrupted, shaking her head and dropping back into herself. Her voice was small, cut through with traces of terror, and the fist gripping Lexa's heart clenched ever tighter. Clarke raised her head, slow and careful, and levelled a calculating gaze at her. It felt almost as though she were picking Lexa apart, deconstructing her atom by atom. 

Lexa narrowed her eyes, tried her best to mirror that analytical gaze, to work out what logical progression had brought about the question. She came up short, a feeling that was fast becoming all too familiar. "Excuse me?"

Clarke's brow furrowed and she tilted her head to the side. "Is this real? Are you here?"

Lexa nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"I don't know if this is—" Clarke began, before shaking her head and leaning forward. "Tell me something I don't know," she said, close and confidential. "Everything you've said, I could have imagined. Tell me something I don't know. _Please_. I need to know this is real."

Lexa's breath caught in her throat, and she looked towards the ceiling, praying she could find some answer in the matte surface of the bulkhead. Nothing presented itself, and so she relegated herself to words made rote by hundreds of repetitions. "Igneous rocks are formed by the solidification of magma or lava—"

"Lexa," Clarke laughed, "That's fifth grade science class at best. I'm positive I've heard you use that exact phrasing at god knows how many school visits." 

Lexa chewed on her bottom lip, deep in thought. It was a surprisingly difficult demand to fulfil. "The existence of a northern ocean on Mars has long been a topic of debate. We took core samples to attempt to determine the origin of the substrate—"

"Mission briefing, Lex. Old news."

Lexa let out a heavy sigh. "Sure, okay. Upwards of forty thousand circular mounds are spread across southern Acidalia Planitia—"

"Yeah, and I probably drove over half of them."

" _Griffin_ ," she chided, and Clarke had the wherewithal to look somewhat apologetic.

"Sorry, sorry, go on."

"The lobate and flow-like features associated with these mounds are analogous to those present on terrestrial mud volcanoes," Lexa continued, sinking into the familiar rhythm of the information. "The profusion of mounds in Acidalia is likely to be a consequence of this basin’s unique geologic setting. Basinwide mud eruption may be attributable to overpressure, perhaps aided by regional triggers for fluid expulsion."[1]

"And that's a rock fact," Clarke muttered, _sotto_ _voce_. "That was better, yeah, that was good, seeing as I don't know half of those words." She grinned up at Lexa. "Thanks for humouring me."

"Any time." 

"I'd forgotten how great geological naming conventions are. You know whoever first saw a mud volcano was like 'That looks like a volcano in the mud, what should we call it? Ah, yes, a mud volcano'. Outstanding decision."

Lexa rolled her eyes, felt a fond smile bloom across her cheeks. "Transparency of meaning is key. I know it must be hard for you to imagine, but some fields don't aspire to make Carl Linnaeus roll over in his grave."

" _Commandant_ 's got jokes now, huh?"

"Excuse you, I've always had an exemplary sense of humour."

Clarke scoffed. "Oh, sure. I'll believe that when I see it."

"Prepare to be amazed," Lexa replied. "By the way, don't know if anyone told you yet, but the Islanders won the Cup."

"What- You've gotta be kidding me. Really? Wow, I didn't expect that."

"Nah. Good joke though, hey?"

Clarke groaned. " _Rude._ How dare you play with my heart like that." Her eyes were alight with laughter. And then her gaze hardened, like she'd seen something to investigate in Lexa's expression. "How are _you_ feeling?"

Every ounce of tension she'd been able to ease from her muscles snapped back in an instant. "I'm good," she said, holding Clarke's gaze.

Clarke raised her eyebrows. "You're good."

"Yeah. Did anyone tell you Reyes and Peters are sharing quarters?"

" _Lexa_ ," Clarke said sharply. "Don't try and change the subject."

"Sorry."

"Cut it out with all the" — she turned her head to yawn into her shoulder— "with all the apologizing and just talk to me. How are you?"

"I'm sorry," Lexa repeated reflexively, and Clarke rolled her eyes. "I just—" She paused, the words caught in her throat, her body trembling as she tried to keep it together. "I need you to know that I'm _sorry_."

"Sorry for _what_?" She stared at Lexa, brows furrowed, and then reached over, slow and painful and looking like she was fighting herself for every inch. She settled her hand on Lexa's knee, rubbed her thumb across Lexa's kneecap. "What do you have to be sorry for?"

Lexa couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, felt like her entire consciousness was focused on that one patch of skin burning under Clarke's hand. The soft pressure of Clarke's touch felt immense, the weight of a planet thrust upon her, bearing her down into a void. 

"Hey, Lex, please. Just tell me."

Lexa sniffled, rubbed away tears. "For everything. For leaving you."

"You didn't know."

"I should have."

"You couldn't have."

Lexa deflated. "I know that. Rationally I know that, but I wouldn't be who I am without the overwhelming guilt complex, now, would I?

Clarke groaned loudly. "You're so dumb."

"I know, Clarke."

"Such a dumbass."

"Yes, Clarke."

"Shut your stupid face," Clarke muttered through another yawn, stroking her hand up and down Lexa's knee. "Your dumb, stupid, wrong face. I'mma sleep, but we're gonna talk later 'bout how it's not your fault, yeah?" She locked eyes with Lexa. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, we'll talk later." Lexa started to unfold her legs, then stilled again as Clarke's grip went tight on her knee. 

"Don't," Clarke mumbled, eyelids drooping closed. "Stay."

Lexa stared at the hand on her knee, trying her best to ignore the warmth blooming in her chest. She reached out tentatively and laid her hand over top of Clarke's, inhaled sharply at the shock of contact, the coolness of the flesh under her skin. "Of course," she murmured, brushing her thumb across Clarke's knuckles. "I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

[1] Oehler, D.Z. & Allen, C.C. (2010). Evidence for pervasive mud volcanism in Acidalia Planitia, Mars. _Icarus, 208_ (2), 636-657. doi: 10.1016/j.icarus.2010.03.031

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your feedback on the last chapter! Aiming to upload a chapter a week; we'll see how that goes. Gotta throw in an APA citation in honour of getting my thesis responses back, I guess. 
> 
> The kids'll have it out in a coherent convo soon, promise.


	3. Mission Days 690-696

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for your great comments and stuff, really helps keep my mood up in These Trying Times etc etc

**MISSION DAY 690**

Octavia was halfway through her breakfast when her wrist band beeped frantically, sending vibrations down her arm. She caught 'Griffin' and a flash of red out of the corner of her eye and it was enough to spur her into action. She dropped her meal on the counter, sprinted down the hall, grabbed the emerg bag from the medbay before launching herself down the ladder to the crew quarters. The soles of her shoes squeaked along the ladder as she used them to break her slide. Then she spun away, rushed across to Clarke's cabin, skidded to a halt and ripped the sliding door open.

She didn't know exactly what she'd expected, but it sure as hell wasn't the scene in front of her. Well, Clarke, frozen in place on the bed, staring at the blood seeping down her forearm from where she'd torn the IV catheter from her vein? She'd anticipated that, had been prepared for it since she'd first noticed the abrasions around the insertion site. 

But Lexa? Sitting on the far corner of the bed from Clarke, head down, hands shaking? She hadn't seen that coming.

"When I told you to get some sleep, it wasn't meant to be a euphemism," she quipped reflexively out of the corner of her mouth as she posted up in front of Clarke and cracked open her kitbag. 

Lexa turned towards her, eyes bloodshot, mouth falling open. "That wasn't—"

"I know, Commander, chill out. Just trying to lighten the mood." Octavia waved her hand in Clarke's eyeline. "Griff, you home?"

Clarke's head rose slowly, eyes just on the edge of unfocused. "Huh?"

"You tore out your IV, babe. I need to clean it up and put a new line in, okay?" At Clarke's nod, Octavia got underway. As she ran through her tasks, she glanced over at Lexa again. "What happened?"

Lexa shrugged weakly. "I stopped in last night to welcome her back. Fell asleep sitting on the edge of the bed and woke up to this." She raised her hands slightly, and Octavia could see her throat work as she swallowed hard. "Wouldn't let me touch her to help her," she added, the will it took to keep her voice from shaking evident in the tension of her shoulders, the hardness of her jaw.

Octavia's gaze flicked back and forth between the pair and she sighed. "She's been having problems with physical contact, especially when she's not in control of the situation. It's not a statement on you."

"I _know_ that," Lexa replied. The edge to her voice made Clarke startle, made her lean away towards the other end of the bed, curl in on herself. Lexa blanched, looking on the verge of sicking up. "I know that. I do." She cleared her throat, eyes darting towards Clarke and away just as quickly, and then she rose."If you have a handle on the situation, Blake," she said, with an air of detachment that Octavia didn't believe for a second, "then I've other things on the docket."

Octavia swore under her breath. "At least get some breakfast in you first. And talk to Anya or something, _Christ_."

"Update me once you're done here," Lexa replied, steadfastly ignoring Octavia's requests.

Octavia spared a glare over her shoulder at the departing Lexa before turning her attention back to Clarke. "Coward," she muttered under her breath, shaking her head.

"Hey, rude," Clarke slurred.

"Wasn't directed at you. You're just an idiot." Octavia set aside the towel she'd been using to sop up the blood. "Do you have a single shred of instinct towards self-preservation, or is there just nothing at all in there?"

"Wasn't room in the MAV to pack it."

Octavia scoffed under her breath, and anger boiled up in her chest, turning her movements harsh. She reinserted the IV cannula and secured it with layers of tape, roughly manipulating Clarke's arm until the motions tore a pained gasp from Clarke's mouth.

Octavia snatched her hands away, then tipped her head back and took a deep breath. "Sorry, sorry," she said gently, heart aching at the mistrust that painted Clarke's face as she watched her movements closely. "Clarke, babe, that line needs to stay in. Can you do that, or do we have to figure out another option?"

Clarke swayed forward and shook her head, her left hand already moving to pick at the freshly secured tape. "It hurts," she mumbled, fingers scrabbling over her skin. "It feels like something's moving around in my veins, and the tubing keeps rubbing on my arm when I don't expect it and—"

"Hey, whoa. Try and take a breath, Clarke. Can you do that for me? We'll figure this out." Octavia rubbed at her forehead, trying to relax the bands of tightness that had cinched around her temples, and sighed. "I don't see restraints going over well, do you?" She didn't wait for Clarke's rushed head shake before continuing. "I could sedate you again, but I don't want to become dependent on that for the sole purpose of keeping a cannula in."

"It worked before."

"Fair enough. We'll go that route again today, but going forward we'll rely on whatever other strategy I can come up with. Ready for a nice old ketamine and hydromorphone cocktail?"

The mixture had Clarke down for the count within minutes. Octavia helped her lie back flat and pulled the sheets over her, pausing as she caught sight of Clarke's clenched right fist.

She coaxed Clarke's fingers loose, finding within them the same rock Clarke had secreted away in her boot upon her return. Octavia took hold of it, moved to lift it to the light so she could take a closer look. Clarke's hand followed, reaching out, feeling the loss. Octavia tucked the stone back in Clarke's palm and let her curl her fingers around it again.

Octavia cleaned up in silence, wiping the last of Clarke's blood from the floor and giving the quarters a final once-over before deciding she'd done a thorough job. But then she caught her reflection in the mirror on her way out the door, and there was a final streak of blood crusted across her brow.

* * *

**MISSION DAY 692**

"I come bearing gifts" Octavia called out as she bustled into Clarke's room. She unfolded the table top from the wall and set a plate and cutlery on it before pulling two pouches from the front pocket of her hoodie.

Clarke rubbed the sleep from her eyes and squinted at the packets for a long moment before her mouth broke into a grin. "I'm cleared for solids?"

"You haven't been hitting your caloric intake goals with sludge, so we're gonna try this out."

"I don't care about the why, just gimme." Clarke made grabby hands at Octavia until she passed them over. A quick perusal of the label had her face falling, and she gave an exaggerated frown. "Eggs?"

"Eggs."

"Fucking hate eggs." 

"Beggars can't be choosers, Griff."

She levelled one last glare at the packets before sighing and dumping them out onto the plate. As she picked up her fork, Octavia retreated to the corner of the room. She feigned engrossment in her comms screen as she watched Clarke through her brows. 

_Private Connection_

_BlakeO: watching her try to eat is actually physically painful_

_BlakeO: like kid have you ever touched a fork in your life or_

_BlakeO: also learn to swallow yeah_

_ReyesR: wow your bedside manner really is atrocious. remind me not to hurt myself before we get back._

_BlakeO: I'm a researcher, not a family doctor. or a fucking speech pathologist. if she's developed dysphagia I'm actually fucked_

_ReyesR: im not even gonna pretend i know what that means_

Octavia rolled her eyes and glanced up to see Clarke prodding at the meal, the rubbery skin of the egg holding intact at the pressure of the fork tines. She didn't look to have touched it much beyond that. 

Closing the chat window, Octavia took a step towards the bed. “Griff, are you doing okay?” 

Clarke shrugged. “It’s… I don’t know. I really fucking hate eggs.”

“Can you try to at least get a quarter of it down for me, babe?”

“Can you try to not speak to me like I'm a child?” Clarke snapped, slamming her fork down and then jumping at the sound.

“Griffin."

“I'm just saying.” She poked at another chunk of egg and shook her head. “If I have to eat another mouthful I'm probably gonna puke.”

Octavia tipped her head back and muttered a silent prayer to… anyone that would listen, really. In what world did she deserve this bullshit. “You've had maybe three bites, Clarke. That's nowhere near enough to make up the meal ration. If you really can't stomach anything more, we can work with that. We'll head down to the medbay and hook you up with an NG tube to get the rest down, okay?"

"Fuck that," Clarke spat, shoving the plate away. "I was eating solids fine on the surface."

"You were eating potatoes. And a half ration meal like once a month. Not exactly a diet that can be transitioned directly to full rations without a severe shock to your system." 

"I've done perfectly fine figuring out my nutritional requirements up until now. I don't need you micromanaging my intake."

"You want to call the shape you're in 'perfectly fine'? You _survived_. That's it. Full stop. Just surviving isn't going to cut it anymore." Octavia stalked closer and slapped her palm down on the table. A perverse thrill struck through her at the way Clarke flinched back from the motion. "This isn't a negotiation, Griffin. There's a certain amount of calories and nutrients that you're going to get, one way or another. If you won't voluntarily, as you've refused to thus far, I'll sedate and intubate you until you will."

"Is that meant to be a threat?"

"You really don't get it, do you?" Octavia laughed in disbelief. "I knew you were self-absorbed, but this is on a whole new level. Your physical well-being is my responsibility, Griffin. 'Micromanaging' your intake is my _only_ job right now. We flew millions of miles to get you. We've spent months extra off planet to rescue you. I am _not_ about to be the reason you die on the ride home."

* * *

 **AUDIO LOG:** **GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 693, 0834 hours**

O has me all set up with a nasogastric tube. Hottest new fashion accessory on the Ark. Everyone's clamouring to get one of their own.

It's the fucking pits. Sludge is two calories per millilitre, and I'm currently supposed to hit 1600 calories, putting me at 800 millilitres of nutrition, or sixteen syringes full. Four per meal. Which takes for _ever_ to push in, and then after I feed myself I've gotta flush it with water so it doesn't clog up. And then even more water to hit my hydration standards because I can't drink it straight when I've got this fucking tube down my throat. And because I'm too much of a fucking mess to even keep a fucking IV line in, because I'm a fucking failure of a human being.

It's taking everything I have not to tear out the NG tube. It's irritating and itching and bruising my nose and rubbing the back of my ear raw and I fucking hate it. But since my appetite is approximately zero and I can barely even choke anything down anymore, O says it's either the NG tube and syringes or an IV and restraints. And I don't even want to think about how my stupid fucked up head might respond to being tied down. 

At least I don't have to taste the sludge. Small fucking mercies.

In other fantastic news, our glorious leader has been MIA since The Incident. Which is cool, whatever, some people aren't huge fans of bleeding all over the place and that's fine. They're perfectly within their rights to hold that opinion. And, if I so desired, I'd be perfectly within my own rights to bribe another member of the crew to torment said person with all manner of practical jokes.

If I wanted to...

Which I don't.

And haven't.

Obviously.

...

O was right. She really is a fucking coward. 

I thought we were closer than this. I thought all those hours we spent together outside of work, all that time hiking and stargazing and sharing everything with each other, would mean I'd be something more than a box to tick off on her to-do list. But I guess not. Run rock samples. Pick up Griffin. Analyze soil profiles. Tick, tick, tick. 

I dunno, maybe I just built it up in my head, thought myself into this one-sided fixation. Maybe I made this ideal out of her, watched my memories of her through rust-coloured glasses. I know there were times on the surface when I focused too much on her, when I used the thought of her as my impetus because the drive to survive for myself fell short. When I tattooed a stupid sentimentality on my side because it was the only outlet that could keep me from a more destructive use for the needle. 

It'd be easy enough to pull up some of the videos from before we landed. It'd take half a second to verify that I'm not deluded about the depth of our friendship. But the thought terrifies me. I know I'm not the person I used to be. What if she never was?

* * *

**MISSION DAY 694**

Clarke sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, her back pressed up against the bulkhead and cases of meals arranged around her. She shoved the eggs to the side with a shudder and recapped the permanent marker before tapping it against her lip. After a moment she put the marker down and pulled the next box towards her. Teriyaki chicken. Palatable. High protein. Not favoured by Peters. She flipped through the sachets, muttering the count under her breath. Snatched up the marker to cross out the previous tally and replace it with the newest, lunged for the next box. Her breathing grew more and more rapid, her vision narrowing as though the walls were closing in on her. 

Lincoln tripped over her when he entered, sending her sprawling to the side. He caught himself against the wall, a bemused look on his face that softened when he spotted her. 

Clarke looked away quickly, swore under her breath, and restarted her count. 

Lincoln settled down beside her, keeping a careful foot of space between them. He folded his legs criss-cross, and reached a hand into her sightline, palm up. "I'll write," he said gently.

She hesitated for a moment, hands shaking as she stared at the marker, and then she dropped it into his palm. She rifled through the next container, counting under her breath as she went. "Fish casserole, fifty-three."

"Have to get those omega-3s," Lincoln murmured as he wrote the figure down. 

As Clarke moved on to the next case she could feel the weight of his gaze on her. It made her skin crawl, sent a shiver down her spine. "You're staring." Her hand clenched into a fist around one of the sachets and she had to force herself to relax, to let the tension leak from her fingers.

"I was trying to understand why you're taking inventory by hand, rather than using the scanner."

Clarke let the comment sit and shuffled through the remainder of the case. "Oatmeal with raisins, sixty-seven." Old person breakfast. Callaghan's favourite. She shoved the case aside and bent her knees, hugged them to her chest. "Lotta reasons, I guess. I need to know the count is accurate. Like, physically. I need to see it to have any trust in it. And doing the calorie math by hand after I count helps solidify it in my mind." She picked at a snag in the knee of her pants and then shrugged, rested her cheek on her knee and looked at Lincoln. "It's not like I've got much else going on. Got nothing but time to obsess over our food stores."

Clarke's stomach knotted in anticipation of further questions, but Lincoln just nodded thoughtfully and pulled another case towards them. "Spaghetti."

She gave him a grateful smile and got to counting.

* * *

 **AUDIO LOG:** **GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 695, 1143 hours**

O's been a bit hesitant around me the past couple days, and she's sent Anya and Lincoln to do her dirty work on more than one occasion. She also let Anya take me to the lab this morning, which is maybe a bit of an apology for the other day. As much of one as she'd ever make, probably. Dick.

Actually, now that I think about it, Linc might have said something to her.

It was my second or third time using the ladders since I've been back, and I'm still really out of fucking practice. Jesus. I kept catching my toes on the rungs and all I could hear was Anya laughing her ass off as she watched me.

It's… strange… being back. Entering the Ark from Earth was a crash course in claustrophobia. Sure, we had some longer-term isolations during training, but it doesn't quite compare to the real thing. Turns out that the knowledge there's a breathable, survivable atmosphere outside is a pretty big comfort to lose.

Coming off Mars, the claustrophobia is still there, lurking in my monkey brain, but now there's some semblance of agoraphobia as well? I know that's an oxymoron, but I'm not sure how else I could describe it. The way my voice echoes in the hall, the reality that I can't see the entirety of my living space just by turning my head. The underlying fear that somewhere on this ship, out of view, there's a piece of equipment that's on the verge of breaking down and killing us all. 

This is the largest space I've been able to walk in without a suit ever since I left the Hab, what, a year ago? But in turns it's also the most trapped I've felt in even longer.

With all that percolating in the back of my mind like a pot of shitty, shitty coffee, the trip to the lab was a bit rough. Once I got there, however, I had far more important things to deal with.

My plants. Through some miracle, my crew who I love and totally would not disown even if they brought harm to my babies managed not to kill them. Prick van Spike was looking a bit worse for wear, which could be overwatering, though it might just be the particular substrate mixture he's been assigned. 

I'm still not a hundred percent on the viability of cacti in a terraforming context, given the adverse reactions some of mine have displayed as a result of subsistence on a growth medium that closely reflects the type we'd be capable of creating on Mars. Though, the bigger issue is, of course, the fact that Martian regolith is highly toxic to most living things. I dealt with the perchlorate problem by soaking the dirt I brought into the lab and discarding the wastewater from that, but that's not a feasible solution on a larger scale, like city-sized habitation domes. 

Perchlorates negatively affect a plant's capacity for photosynthesis, as they cause reductions in chlorophyll content in leaves and shit. Reduce the amount of photosynthesis occurring and you reduce the amount of oxygen released into the atmosphere as a waste product. We'll already need to supplement whatever oxygen levels any plant life contributes if we want to support human life, so decreases in oxygen production capacity are not ideal.

Of course, those steps are way down the line, and most of my work is looking at stuff like the effects of prolonged exposure to Martian gravity levels, different atmospheric compositions, lighting, water availability, stuff like that. And a couple studies I was running with O on the psychological effects of increased proximity to plant life during extended space travel. Can't help but think those would have gotten canned pretty quickly after they left Mars. Yikes.

Anyways, most of the work I was doing was focused on the relationship between plant life and space habitation in the shorter term, with more applicability to upcoming expeditions than to terraforming plans way down the line. But, now I've shown something of a proof-of-concept for food production on Mars, I can't help but want to dive into work on that more extended timeline. It just feels so much more achievable now that I've lived it myself, albeit on a much smaller scale.

I didn't allow myself to think about the future when I was on the surface. All the threats to my life were so immediate and required the whole of my attention. In all honesty, I never truly believed I'd make it off Mars alive. Not until I'd actually done it. 

And now, sure, there's still the threat of months of space travel, but I'm finally allowing myself a bit more leeway in the planning department. I'm finally letting myself consider what my next steps will look like when we get back to Earth—

Note that I said 'when' there, not 'if'; where did this positivity come from—

I'm thinking about a 'Life After', and I gotta say, it's fucking exhilarating.

* * *

**MISSION DAY 695 CONT'D**

Clarke stiffened where she lay, head pillowed on her arms, when her comms device vibrated under her cheek. She sat up in her bunk, pressing her back to the headboard, and opened the channel. "What's up, O?"

"Just checking in," Octavia said brusquely. "How are your pain levels?"

Clarke raised her eyebrows, then remembered the expression was wasted on an audio call. "Sound a bit stressed for just a check in."

"Pain levels, Griff."

Clarke shrugged to no one in particular. "About as well as could be expected, I suppose."

"Yeah, unfortunately that's about to change."

"That's certainly an ominous way to put… anything…"

"We'll run out of hydromorphone tonight."

"Ah. That's not ideal."

"No, it's not," Octavia replied sharply. "I'll keep you stocked up on low-dose NSAIDs, but you're gonna be in a bit more pain going forward than you have been up to this point."

Clarke furrowed her brow. "Do we not have any Vicodin?"

"Sorry, babe, but I'm not comfortable inviting paracetamol to the party. Your blood counts haven't been great as it is, and the last thing we would want to be dealing with right now is a little casual liver failure."

"Yeah, sure, that makes sense, that's fine. Cool." She nodded absently as calculations whirred through her head. After a moment, she scrunched her face in confusion. "How the hell are we out?"

"Sorry?"

Clarke grabbed her tablet from its pouch and scribbled down some notes. She'd been on board for a week, with multiple daily doses, and— She furrowed her brows, circled one of her figures a couple of times. "I thought you guys got a med supply restock when you did your slingshot."

"We did," Octavia confirmed, her voice terse.

Clarke nodded to herself, checked her math again, then a third time to be safe. She let out a long, slow breath, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "Have you been double-dosing me, Blake?"

There was silence for a long moment, and then— "You're really going to ask _me_ that? After our conversation the other day?"

"Well, I don't know. By my accounts there should be another week's worth, at least, so either you've been double-dosing me or it's gone missing."

Octavia's sigh rattled over the comms channel. "Or _maybe_ you're not the only person who's needed painkillers."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Octavia replied all too quickly. "I'll be by in a couple hours with your last dose and your next sludge pouches."

Clarke glared at her comm as she touched a hand to the strip of tape on her cheek. "Oh, yeah, just ignore the question. That's fine."

"It's _nothing_ , Clarke. I shouldn't have even mentioned it."

"Sure, whatever. If you're not gonna keep doping me up, can we take advantage of that last dose to get this tube out of me?"

"We can do that if you can promise you'll hit your intake goals."

Clarke tipped her head to the side and groaned. "I guess, but I'm not gonna like it."

"I don't care, as long as you do it. But you fall short again and that tube's going right back in. And trust me, it hurts a hell of a lot more going in without opioids."

"That's what she said."

"You're the worst. See you at eighteen hundred."

* * *

**MISSION DAY 696**

“Griff, time for dinner," Octavia sing-songed. She only just moved quickly enough to dodge the pillow launched at her in retaliation for the interruption.

“Not hungry," Clarke growled from where she lay face down on her bed, one hand outstretched and middle finger on display.

“You need to eat. Doctor’s orders.”

“My doctor’s a fuckwit who left me for dead on Mars, so excuse me if I don’t listen to her.”

“Fuck you too, Griffin.” Octavia sighed and smacked her hand against the door frame. “Only so many times you can try to play that card. Let’s go.”

“I said I’m not hungry.”

“Griffin.” She waited at the door for a moment, but no reply was forthcoming. “You literally promised you'd cut the shit yesterday. Come eat your eggs."

“Don’t want eggs,” came the petulant reply.

“We're not even gonna think about anything more solid than eggs for at least another day or two, so if you don't want another NG tube then it’s those or mashed potatoes. Your choice.”

Clarke rolled off the bunk and emerged into the corridor, blinking wide-eyed from under the blanket she'd wrapped herself in. “Not funny,” she spat.

“It wasn’t a joke.”

Clarke grumbled indistinctly and wiped her nose on her sleeve before tugging the blanket shroud tighter around her. 

Octavia put an arm out to halt her as she tried to shoulder past. "How does your throat feel?" she asked, leaning in with a new air of interest.

"Huh?"

"You've got a runny nose—"

"Better catch it."

" _Clarke_ , how's your throat?"

"Throaty?"

Octavia rolled her eyes and woke up her wrist comm, swiping through to a screen with Clarke's vitals. "Your heart rate and body temperature are a bit elevated. Pulse oximetry is fine, though, that's odd— Is your throat sore?"

"My throat's fine, O. I just feel like I'm running a fever, that's all."

Octavia looked her up and down with an analytical gaze, and then nodded. "Your symptoms aren't consistent with pneumonia, at least. I'll do some blood tests and a couple throat swabs tonight to see if it's anything we have to be worried about."

“Whatever, whatever. How long for dinner?”

“I have another forty before I have to hit the lab, and Peters and Callaghan both have ten left.”

“I meant for me,” Clarke said over her shoulder as she wedged her blanket under her arm and began to ascend the ladder between the decks.

“You don't really have a schedule to adhere to quite yet, so however long you feel like taking, I guess."

“Then why do I have to eat _now_?”

“Because you won’t eat at all unless you have someone breathing down your neck?” Anya suggested as they entered the kitchen. "Seems to be a common problem around here these days," she continued, exchanging a pointed look with Octavia that Clarke really didn't have the energy to try and parse.

“I can take care of myself,” she argued instead, propping herself up in the corner opposite the cabinets and watching Octavia put together their meals.

“Pfft, yeah, okay.” Anya removed a fistful of sachets from the microwave and tore them open. She tipped half of one into her mouth. “How many times did you blow yourself up again?” she asked around a cheekful of food.

Clarke shrugged. “Counterpoint, did I die?” 

A cupboard door snapped shut, shattering the uncomfortable silence that followed Clarke’s remark. Lexa turned the corner from the trash compactor with slumped shoulders and downturned face. She barely acknowledged the trio with a weak nod and a rushed "Excuse me" before she was out the door.

Clarke glanced towards Anya, her mouth dry, her face hot with embarrassment and regret.

Anya avoided her eyes, looking to Octavia instead. They conversed in eyebrow raises before Octavia threw up her hands. " _Fine_ , just let me know if this one eats.” She shoved a packet into Clarke's chest and stormed off down the hall.

Clarke stared after her, gaze staying glued on the hallway long after Octavia had disappeared back down the ladder. "Anya," she said finally, voice quavering, "what happened to her while I was planet-side?"

Anya laughed shortly, abrupt and loud, and Clarke's gaze snapped towards her. "I _really_ don't think I'm the one you should be having this conversation with."

"Like she'd stay in a room with me long enough to do more than exchange pleasantries," she shot back with a sneer. "Those two words are the most I've gotten from her in days, Anya. Literal _days_. That has to take planning and conscious effort on a ship this small."

"You need space a lot of the time, right? She does too. It's not about you."

"Uh, kinda feels like it is."

Anya sighed and rubbed at her jaw. "Okay, sure. In the grand scheme of things, everything is about you, which is probably gonna do a number on your ego. But Lexa needs time to work through some shit that's only tangentially related to you. Getting on her case about it when she’s still trying to get a handle on it is the worst possible thing you could do. When she's ready to talk, I'm sure you'll be the first to know."

"Ha, that's a good one. Rely on a coward to stop being a coward. Great advice, super solid."

"I take it back, it probably _is_ about you. And how much of a massive asshole you've been lately."

"Fuck you," Clarke replied, flipping her the bird. 

"I'll pass."

Clarke made a face at her and continued grumbling obscenities under her breath as she examined the packet Octavia had handed her. She wrinkled her nose in disgust, then moved to tear it open.

A hand reached out to stop her movement. "Is Blake really still making you only eat eggs and sludge? I'm pretty sure that's a legitimate torture technique." Anya held up a finger and stepped past her to peek around the corner into the hall. She turned back with a conspiratorial grin. "Trade you a beef stew for that."

"For real?"

Anya shrugged her shoulder. "I won't tell if you won't."

Clarke took the sachet in both hands, a beatific grin splitting her face as she raised it before her in reverence. "I knew there was a reason I didn't hate you."

"Don't go getting used to it." She raised the packet Clarke passed her in a mocking salute. "Time to put the weight back on, pipsqueak. Bottom's up."

* * *

 **AUDIO LOG: GRIFFIN** **, C. MISSION DAY 696, 1924 hours**

Yeah, Octavia was right on the money. I threw that up almost immediately. 

Oops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended for there to be another scene + log at the end of this chapter, but I'm super not happy with them right now and got my thesis reviews back, so moving them to the next chap as my revision energy has to be focused elsewhere rn.
> 
> resultantly, another Lexa-light chapter, which I'm also not happy with but this month's (and this story's) motto is "doesn't have to be perfect, just has to get done" so I'm rolling with it I guess


	4. Mission Days 697-698

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: discussion of drug abuse

**MISSION DAY 697**

[06:12] CAPCOM: The psych team has finished reviewing the Ares 3.1 logs. They have some observations that they think should be addressed ASAP. Do you want those, or should they be directed to Blake?

[07:43] CALLAGHAN: Send them to Blake, she's taking point on that. The rest of us are affording Griffin her privacy with regards to everything that occurred planet-side. I trust that measures are being taken to ensure the same on Earth?

[08:21] CAPCOM: All Ares 3.1 records have been secured pursuant to the Privacy Act Human Experimental and Research Data System of Records.

[09:02] CALLAGHAN: Why don't they fall within the purview of the Health Information Management System? The HERD policy is far too open to potential abuse of Freedom of Information Act requests, especially considering the probable sensitive nature of that data.

[10:13] CAPCOM: The contents of the logs don't fit the categories of records contained in the HIM system. Redaction has occurred per the Medical Privacy Act where necessary, as well as in sections where log topics were deemed to fall under private communications intended to promote psychological well-being. NASA isn't in the business of selling astronaut logs out as tabloid fodder, Commander. 

[10:56] CALLAGHAN: Noted. Please provide Griffin with a copy to review so she can ensure that the level of redaction is sufficient.

Lexa leaned back in her chair and scrubbed her hands across her face with a heavy sigh. The disjointed manner of time-delayed communication was increasingly frustrating, especially now that they were back at the apex of delay length. And juggling the usual ten conversations with people at eight different institutes while wrestling over clearly inadequate privacy statutes with whatever stone-headed lackey Gus had on the CAPCOM desk today? That was a whole new circle of hell. 

One that was about to get even more intolerable, if the heavy footfalls resounding down the hallway were anything to go by. She kept half an eye on the screens arrayed in front of her as she listened closely to the approaching crew member, trying to discern who exactly had felt the need to intrude. 

She worked it out by the hiss of pain they gave when they closed the access hatch behind them. Received confirmation when they broke the silence a second later.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Good morning to you too, Griffin," Lexa replied calmly over her shoulder. "Did you sleep well?"

“No, you don’t get to—" Clarke started, stopped, her voice cracking, already on the verge of hoarseness. She cleared her throat and continued. "You’ve exchanged all of ten words with me since you picked me up. What are you playing at?"

Lexa's back went taut, and she braced her hands on the console and dropped her chin to her chest. She took a deep breath, her body shaking ever so slightly, and then let out a long exhale. "Jackson said you'd need time and space. That it was going to take a while for you to adjust to being around people again." Her hand curled into a fist, but she forced it back flat, drumming her fingers on the console as she tried to calm the nervous flutter in her ribcage. "I don't want to overwhelm you," she added after a moment. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded small. Tired.

"Since when do you follow ground's orders, instead of asking me what _I_ want?"

Lexa steeled herself as she pushed off from the console and stood, turned to face Clarke. It still wasn't enough to stop the rush of blood to her head when she made eye contact. "Tell me, then. What exactly is it that you want?" Lexa widened her stance a smidgen, all the better to keep her balance against the buzz of lightheadedness ringing in her ears.

Clarke's face was flushed, beads of sweat dotting her temples, as though she'd worked herself into a lather in advance of the confrontation. "I’ve had the most time and space of anyone in the history of the universe. I’d like to not be treated like I’m useless. I’d like you all to stop tiptoeing around me and let me do my job. I’m not a fucking invalid."

Lexa worked her jaw, eyes fixed on a point somewhere above Clarke's head. "I can’t let you do that."

"Why? Because I’m broken?" 

The words came with all the force of a bullet. They made a home between Lexa's ribs, burned white-hot in her chest, pulsing angrily with her every heartbeat. She hadn't meant to give that impression, would never have even thought anything along those lines, let alone spoken it out loud. "Because you’re _healing_ ," she corrected, but it felt a weak parry to Clarke's accusation.

"Feeling useful is gonna let me heal a hell of a lot faster."

Lexa allowed her gaze to drop to meet Clarke's, her mouth going thin. "Or it could kill you," she replied, hanging onto the last vestiges of cool, calm, and collected by the slimmest of margins.

“In what world—” 

Heat raced into her cheeks, turned them a blotchy red, and her voice rose, spiralling out of control. “The most important thing to me right now is getting all of you home safely. I have failed at almost every single other aspect of this mission, but if I can just get six pairs of boots on the ground—” She shook her head, pressure building behind her eyes, and pinched at the bridge of her nose. “You’re confined to quarters, Griffin. I'm not here to make decisions based on how you 'feel'. I'm here to get us home alive.”

"Un- _fucking_ -believable," Clarke scoffed with a shake of her head. She brought her gaze back to rest on Lexa, surveyed her with steely eyes. Lexa stiffened at the examination, shoulders sliding back, chin lifting, soles of her feet twisting against the floor. The way Clarke's lips pursed, the minute tilt of her head, made Lexa's breath catch in her throat. Her chest clenched at the mere idea that whatever Clarke saw in her had somehow fallen short of her expectations, and she hated herself for it. "Oh, for fuck's sake, would you stop doing that?"

Lexa startled, staring back at Clarke and completely thrown off balance. "Stop what?"

"This whole 'at ease' posture," Clarke clarified with an all-encompassing sweep of her hand. "The little toy soldier awaiting orders. Whenever you feel the least bit threatened, you snap into it instead of actually addressing your discomfort. Cut it out." 

Lexa's hands tightened reflexively behind her back, the warmth of her skin beneath her palms a grounding influence that she tried to swaddle herself in. "I'm well aware of the frequency with which I engage in self-soothing strategies, Griffin. I don't believe my usage of them should be of any concern to you."

"Are you fucking— _Christ_ , Lexa. Give it a rest for two seconds. Please." Clarke's hands couldn't seem to stay still, darting in turns between tugging at her sleeves and running through her hair and picking at the backs of her hands. Lexa was struck with an intense desire to step forward and take those hands between her own, to hold tight until the movement calmed. She buried it deep as Clarke tugged up her left sleeve, ringed a hand around her wrist and twisted it back and forth. It was as though she wasn't even conscious of the actions, like her energy had grown too large for her body and movement was the only thing that could allow her to reach homeostasis. "I know you're in command, but you're not the only person on this ship. Why do you keep acting like this is all on you?"

Lexa stared at her, eyes shining and jaw tight, as her stomach bottomed out. She took a shuddering breath, fighting to regain her equilibrium. "You know why," she replied, her tone difficult to govern. She forced herself to maintain eye contact despite the overwhelming urge to tear her gaze away, the panic that throbbed in her chest and screamed at her to turn and run. 

"I don't think I do, though." Clarke shrugged, a lopsided smile flashing across her face so quickly that Lexa could almost believe she'd imagined it. Then the shutters slammed back down, rage readily apparent in every line of her body. "You sidestep questions and gloss over things and put up all these fucking walls. You keep running and hiding and acting nothing like the person you used to be, and, honestly? At this point I'm not even sure I knew you at all to begin with." Her face went dark, and she nodded to herself, sharp and precise, like she'd landed on yet another home truth to dish out with vigour. "So, yeah, I _don't_ know why you're so intent on shouldering all the blame. Enlighten me."

Lexa's hackles rose, tension creeping up her spine. "Because it _is_ all on my shoulders. It's all my fault. I didn't scrub the mission early enough. I didn't maintain visual contact in the storm. I didn't stay in orbit." She knew it was her voice, her words, but they sounded as if they were coming from somewhere far off, growing faint across the distance. "I made wrong decision after wrong decision, and you're the one who suffered for it."

"Oh, come off it. Let's not rehash the Callaghan's Greatest Cognitive Dissonance Hits reunion tour. You and I both know that's not what has you scared."

Realization dawned on Lexa, then, under the flint of Clarke's eyes. It hit hard as an uppercut to the chin, ripped through tender scar tissue and tore her heart open anew. She laughed, hollow and stilted, to keep a sob from erupting past the catch in her throat. "I never told you what actually happened in Daraa, did I?" 

It wasn't so much a question as a statement. She knew exactly how much information she had provided that night in the bed of a pick-up truck in the middle of the desert, the expanse of stars above them infinite and the space between them vanishing with every confession. She remembered vividly the way her hands had shaken, the way the breeze had whispered across her skin. The way the chill of the night had fallen away under the warmth of Clarke's understanding. Nevertheless, she asked.

Clarke's eyes narrowed, darted to the side, and Lexa could all but see the memories flash across her pupils. "You said that you were leading a mission that went south," she said carefully. "That you'd lost people."

"I killed them."

Clarke's hands went still, her eyes widening. Lexa would rather be faced with _anything_ other than the pity that rested heavy in her gaze. "Lexa—"

Lexa turned her head, stared into the corner of the room, chewed at the still-tender spot on her lip. The skin split, iron spreading across her tongue, and she had to reach a hand back to the console to steady herself as the tang catapulted her into memories she'd long since pushed aside. "It was supposed to be a routine mission. A three day sweep to clear an area of IEDs." The stench of burning flesh. "We were headed out via a route I'd been assured was safe." Dust on the air, so thick it coated her tongue. She took a breath, eyes fluttering closed. "It wasn't." Flashes of colour, chaos unfolding behind her eyelids. "Maybe I didn't plant the bomb, but the intel that I was meant to verify was bad, and I think I knew. That morning I _knew_ something didn't feel right and despite that I gave the order that drove us straight into hell. I still don't know what I overlooked, what I missed, but _I_ fell short. Me. I screwed up so massively that I killed my unit, Griffin. I'll be damned if I'm going to do the same to y— to the five of you."

Clarke wiped her forehead with her sleeve, eyes flashing, narrowing. The look on her face wasn't anything Lexa recognized, all kinds of pinched and contorted, and it chilled her to her core. "You didn't seem all that concerned about everyone surviving when you gave the order to blow up the Ark," Clarke snarled, advancing towards her.

Lexa took an unconscious step backwards, cracked the small of her back against the lip of the console and drove the air from her lungs. "It was what needed to be done to ensure your survival."

"And it put the rest of you at risk! You _never_ should have considered that an option, Lexa. My life is no more valuable than any of yours. None of you are disposable." Clarke looked for a moment as though she were going to continue, then grimaced, lifted the front of her sweater to wipe her face on it. The movement brought the hem of her base layer along for the ride, exposed pale skin and the ropy scar that cut across Clarke's hip. 

Lexa's gaze snapped down to focus on it, on the reason they were in this situation to begin with. She had to twist her fingers in the back of her shirt to keep her hands under control. "Neither are you. There were no other options. From the moment our course changed, it was always going to be six of us or none of us. If we couldn't get you aboard, if you don't make it home, then all of this will have been for nothing."

"That's already how it feels," Clarke snapped back.

"What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?" Lexa flinched at the unintentional venom she'd let slip into her words. She dropped her head, folded in on herself under the growing weight of Clarke's gaze. 

"I am tired and I'm scared and I'm in pain and I'm so fucking lonely." Clarke's voice was stretched thin, worn down, raw. The vulnerability of it all made Lexa's mouth go dry, and she swallowed hard, stared fixedly at the tiles beneath her feet. "I wake up every single morning terrified that this has all been a dream, but it's not as though reality has been all that much better. Not when a third of the crew have been treating me like a leper and the rest have been tiptoeing around every single subject. Anya had a go at me yesterday and that was the most _real_ I've felt in I don't know how long."

Clammy fingers came to rest under her chin, guided her head up, sent lightning-bolt shivers down her spine. Clarke met her eyes, determined, fierce, sweat trailing down her cheek, and Lexa found herself hard-pressed to control the direction of her gaze. "I couldn't care less about whether we make it back to Earth," Clarke continued, the pad of her thumb tracing along Lexa's jaw, leaving embers in its wake. In that moment, immolation would have been a mercy. "Because you five were supposed to be my home. But it sure doesn't seem like that's the truth of it anymore."

Lexa's hand twitched, lurched forward of its own accord, but she wrenched it back to her side. She didn't, _couldn't_ , trust her own actions, her own desires. Not with something this tenuous. Not with Clarke. "I'm sorry. It was never my intention to make you feel that way." 

"I'm not looking for apologies, Lexa. I want answers. I want you to help me understand."

The heat of Clarke's touch, of her gaze, was too much. Lexa pulled her head back and side-stepped Clarke. Her hands drifted behind her back, movement ingrained into her nervous system over thousands of repetitions, but she caught herself quickly, clenched her fists and pressed them to her sides instead. She cleared her throat and blinked back burgeoning tears. 

"I have been… selfish… these past months," she admitted. "I lost myself in fear and guilt and blame. Everything diametrically opposed to the person I have known myself to be. I lost sight of the mission, and it's only now begun to come back into focus. I know what I need to do to fix this and bring it to completion, but—" She took a shuddering breath, wet her lips, hugged an arm around her middle. Found the strength to continue, to open herself further. "But I got lost again, when I put your EVA gear away. And then again, watching you bleed, knowing there was no way for me to help. And every time it's getting harder for me to remember what has to be done, to separate it out from what I want to do."

Clarke gave a sardonic chuckle, the hairs at the nape of Lexa's neck standing on end in immediate response. "The world isn't going to end if you dare to show a single emotion, Lexa." 

"I know that." She sighed, dragged her hands down her face. She felt a bit like screaming into her palms, but buried the urge quickly. "But it's not the world ending that I care about. It's _you_." 

"You've sure got a funny way of showing it."

Lexa laughed to herself, shook her head, thumbed a tear from the corner of her eye. "That's because therein lies the issue. I care about you, and after everything that's happened I don't know that I can keep the impartiality I need to get us home safe. Not and still be close to you."

"Oh, Lex." Clarke's voice was soft as she circled around to face her, but the motion still made Lexa feel hunted. "This isn't the ISS or the Artemis outpost. We haven't been mandated to spend three years being nothing more than 'highly trained professionals doing a job'. We're allowed to be friends." 

"Not if it puts you at risk."

Clarke leaned forward into her space, rested her forehead against Lexa's, and Lexa's heart clawed its way into her throat. "Lexa, look at me." Lexa lifted her gaze, met Clarke's blown pupils with a steadiness she could barely support. "You're allowed to have emotions." Clarke lifted a hand and tentatively cupped Lexa's cheek. "You're even allowed to express them. Neither of those things will put any of us in harm's way, okay?"

Lexa squeezed her eyes shut, forced herself to nod.

"Okay. Good." Clarke gave a wet little laugh. "I'm going to hug you now, alright?" 

And then a hand landed on Lexa's hip, the other moving to the back of her neck and, oh god—

It took Lexa a moment to react, to mirror the way Clarke had taken hold of her and pulled her in. Her hands shook as she wrapped her arms around Clarke, and a shiver shot down her spine when Clarke's fingers curled fiercely in the back of Lexa's shirt at the contact. 

Clarke was insubstantial beneath her ill-fitting sweater, so much so that Lexa could easily count her ribs as she rubbed her back. The fragility of her frame made Lexa loosen her grip instinctively. Clarke shuddered at the loss, murmured something incoherent into Lexa's shoulder, clutching at Lexa like she was the only thing keeping her from drowning.

Lexa tugged Clarke in, clung to her just as tightly.

She'd tried her best to be a satellite, to maintain a careful distance, to drift towards the apsis of her orbit around Clarke. But it had taken mere moments of friction between them to accelerate orbital decay, and suddenly Clarke's gravity was drawing Lexa past her periapsis, bringing her closer and closer. Only time could tell what end the imminent collision would bring. Whether they would burn up or fade away.

And, oh, how Lexa longed for ignition.

* * *

 **AUDIO LOG:** **GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 697, 1406 hrs**

There's this pain in my chest—

Yes, I _know_ I have broken ribs. It's not the broken ribs. There's this pain in my chest where I took a knife and drove it in. 

Metaphorically, I mean. Like, the knife is Lexa's mental and emotional state and the stabbing action is the way I pressed her for answers and—

Okay, that's an awful analogy.

My point is, I did that to her. I went and got myself stranded like a fucking asshole and it changed her.

I'm not saying it didn't change me too. It's gotta be fairly obvious at this point how completely this has messed me up. I don't think a single one of us is going to come out of this unscathed. But me? I can roll with change. I'm great at change. Ten out of ten for change. Top marks in Handling Change 101. 

Lexa isn't. At least, not change on a personal level. That's, like, the _one_ thing she's bad at. I think she's always had a really clear picture of who she is, especially in relation to other people. To lose confidence in that foundational knowledge of yourself is probably pretty fucking traumatic. 

But _fuck_ if her insistence on resorting to 'GI Joe, Real American Hero' in lieu of actually considering her own emotions isn't Real American Annoying. Sometimes I just want to scream in her face that she's a person, not a little green army man. No one expects her to be the perfect astronaut, not at this point of the mission. So why the hell does she still keep holding herself to that standard?

* * *

 **AUDIO LOG:** **GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 697, 1933 hrs**

I didn't just change her. I destroyed her. Tore her apart so completely that she can't even recognize herself anymore. 

And then I come back and poke and prod at old scars that I'd left alone before for a _reason_. Pull a story out of her that I know for a _fact_ she doesn't want to share and then just fucking blaze past it like it's nothing. Like she didn't just bare her heart to me. Because whoop-de-doo, I'm Clarke Griffin and this is the bone I came here to pick, and everything's all about me so listen the fuck up.

I'm such a fucking asshole. An asshole who fucking ruined her.

And, now that I know that, all I can think is that it wasn't meant to be me. I was never meant to be on this fucking ship to begin with. Kane put his job on the line to get me on a crew selection, but we should have — or, at least, _I_ should have — been scratched right off the bat. Or soon thereafter. I was not in a good place. Crew dynamics were garbage. Never should’ve been on this ship. Should have been booted from the mission right off the bat so I didn’t jeopardize a crew of A1 astros. So I didn't destroy the best person I've ever met.

Or, you know, Winters and Nabokov and the rest of those assholes should’ve been in this shitshow instead.

This is such fucking bullshit.

* * *

 **AUDIO LOG:** **GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 697, 2347 hrs**

I feel like I'm losing my mind. Like something's under my skin trying to claw its way out. Fucking chest burster. Can't stop thinking about it, can't stop, and it hurts, it hurts, it fucking hurts so much.

Maybe I died out there. Maybe I died out there and something different crawled inside my body and is staring out through my eyes. My skin's so tight it feels paper thin, like it could tear on a whim. If I was dead it wouldn't hurt this much, though, would it? If I'd died I'd be able to rest. Fuck this. Fuck it all to hell. Fucking _fuck_ it hurts, right into my bones.

 _Fuck_ , I wish I were dead.

* * *

**MISSION DAY 698**

She woke up screaming, her hair slicked to her forehead with sweat. She hugged her knees to her chest, drove her nails into the sides of her upper arms. Itchy, itchy, itchy, but no amount of scratching could quell the sensation. She was going to crawl out of her skin without it, curled up in bed with shaking hands and racing mind until she couldn't hold herself down anymore. She needed the relief more than air. Needed to douse the fire that burned through her veins. The pain was too much, she couldn't stand it anymore. Needed it to stop. Needed to be numb.

She stumbled from her bunk, barely catching herself against the opposite wall. Her elbow gave in and she slumped against the metal, head spinning. Her hand missed the door handle the first two attempts, connected solidly on the third, and she wrestled it open.

She pulled herself through the ship in a haze of blurred vision and throbbing headache. To the medbay, though she can't remember how she made it there, let alone undetected. She stumbled through the room, tore apart the storage, emptied drawer after drawer out on the floor, scrabbled through the sterile packets for one filled with hydromorphone tablets. It had to be there, Octavia was lying, Octavia _had_ to be lying—

She found the Vicodin, which should be good enough, should get rid of enough, should should _should—_ Almost lost her grip on the vial as she tore a syringe package open with her teeth.

"That you, Reyes?" she heard from the hallway, and she froze with the tip of the syringe inside the vial. _Tried_ to freeze; she couldn't control the shake of her hands, the needle clicking against the side of the glass.

Octavia.

A sharp intake of breath. Rapid footsteps towards her and her vision blurred with tears and she exhaled shakily, her bottom lip quivering.

"We're out of hydromorphone," and Clarke despised how weak her voice sounded but it was all she could think to say.

Octavia's shoulders stiffened. "I know. We've had this conversation, remember?" Octavia wrested the vial from her hands. "You could've asked, Griff. You _should_ have."

"I didn't— couldn't—"

"Hey. Take a breath. We're here now. You don't have to do this all on your own anymore."

“I just—” Clarke shook her head, then lunged towards Octavia. Octavia stumbled back under the impact, fingers clumsy, fell against the chair in the middle of the room, something shattered. Wrestled Clarke, got her hands around Clarke’s wrists, the floor slick beneath their feet. Clarke had tears on her cheeks, her face hot with embarrassment. “It hurts, O. Please. I just want it to stop.” She struggled, tried to pull herself from Octavia's grasp, but Octavia was too strong, she was too weak, the floor too wet for her feet to find adequate purchase. She stilled but for a jittering leg, stood stiff in Octavia's arms. "I just want to stop hurting."

"I know, Clarke, I know."

She looked up through tear-heavy lashes. "Please don't tell anyone." 

"I won't," Octavia replied, terse, her eyes flicking in the direction of the crew quarters, "not yet."

A voice echoed from the hall, barely audible. "Blake!" Louder, this time, voice distorted around the pain in her temples but still all too easy to recognize. The crawling beneath her skin grew sharper, more frantic, and Clarke tried to no avail to free herself from Octavia's grip. 

Time yawned around them before Lexa thundered into the medbay. She skidded to a stop in front of them, hair up in a messy bun, cowl-necked sweater tugged on so hastily that it was rucked up on one side to expose her pyjama top, cheek still creased from her pillow. She took in the tornado that had torn through the room, and then her tired gaze came to rest on the pair of them, on the white-knuckled grip Octavia had on Clarke's forearms.

"What's going on?"

Octavia flashed from anxious to composed so quickly that it gave Clarke whiplash. "Shit, sorry I woke you up, Lexa." Octavia stepped around Clarke smoothly, gathering equipment as she went. "Griffin's IV port got clogged up, so I had to swap it out. Dropped some stuff in the process. We're all good now, you can get back to bed."

"You're sure?" she asked, directing the question at Clarke over Octavia's shoulder.

Clarke waved a hand, trying her best to feign disinterest. "It's fine," she forced out, digging the fingernails of her other hand into her palm. "Nothing for you to lose sleep over."

"Alright then." Her gaze flicked around the room again and then she nodded to herself. "I turned off your bunk light for you, Blake, since it hadn't timed out yet." She turned on her heel and strode out before either of them had a chance to respond, and Octavia cringed at the comment.

"Not quite the Army moron she makes herself out to be, huh."

Clarke took a step. Glass crunched under her weight, pain rising jagged from the sole of her foot.

Octavia wheeled about, a thunderhead. "Don't you dare try to walk away from me right now. I can't fucking believe you would—" She trailed off as Clarke took another step, leaving a red footprint in her wake. "Fuck, don't— Just get up on the chair." She all but manhandled Clarke up onto the surgical chair, stepping carefully around the broken vial.

Clarke lolled back against the headrest, with barely enough energy to wince as Octavia cleaned out the wounds. She didn't pretend to be gentle about it.

"I'm not going to be able to keep this from her for long."

"Like she gives enough of a shit about what's going on with me to figure it out on her own. All caught up in her own shit."

“Lay off her, Griff."

"She started it."

"Don't be a fucking child. You don't have the faintest idea what she's done for you."

"She left me in some Martian backwater with much less than a box of scraps for me to build something out of. Or d'you mean there's something else or what."

"Jesus Christ, Griffin. Really living up to the dumb blonde stereotype here.”

Clarke winced aloud at a particularly rough use of tweezers, took a white-knuckled grip on the armrest. "If I don't know something, it's because you've all kept me in the dark about every single fucking thing. I won't fall apart if somebody tells me the truth."

"She says, as she bleeds all over the medbay."

"Blake." 

"It's not my place."

" _Octavia._ " Her voice came out pained, low and quiet. She barely recognized it.

Octavia sighed, setting the tweezers aside and wiping her hands on a cloth. "We weren't meant to pick you up. The commander forced NASA's hand. She and Peters could be released from service, at the very least. Potentially court-martialed." 

Clarke bit out a laugh. “No, they won’t. Fucking naive if you think that. Be a godawful PR move.”

Octavia dragged an alcohol swab across her foot without warning, and Clarke gritted her teeth, hissing at the sting. "Maybe so, but she still risked everything to come back for you. The least you could do is show her some respect."

Clarke avoided eye contact, gripping the edge of the table, throat bobbing. "I know, I just— I didn't mean— It—" She shook her head, tearing up, lower lip quivering. "It _hurts_."

Octavia looked up from applying cream to Clarke's soles, pity slowly replacing the upset in her eyes. "When did it start?"

Clarke drummed her fingers, eyes darting about, and then sighed. "Messed my head up when the Hab blew, and then fucked up my back testing my rover mods. Relied on the opioids a bit too much, I guess. Couldn't get out of bed otherwise."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Didn't think it was going to turn into a problem. Guess I was wrong."

Octavia nodded sharply. "Apparently. I need a minute to think." She bandaged Clarke's feet in silence and then stood with a heavy sigh and carefully picked her way across the room. Clarke watched out of the corner of her eye as Octavia flipped through disordered supplies, grabbed two packets, glanced back and forth between them. Set them down, pulled something up on her wrist comm and scrolled through. Then she looked over towards Clarke, narrowed her eyes, and selected one of the packets.

Octavia's touch was rough and heavy-handed, and Clarke's protests and flinches went unacknowledged as she manhandled her. "I'm going to put you under for now," she said abruptly, in the midst of injecting something that burned like acid in Clarke's veins. "I don't have the mental capacity to deal with this one with no sleep." 

"S'okay. Sorry."

"No, _I'm_ sorry." Then the second pinch came, and Clarke had only a moment to revel in the release of tension before she was freefalling out of her body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a dumbass added six pages to her thesis and sent it off for last round of revisions (knock on wood) and then finished this and is now going to sleep forever. as always, thank you so much for your feedback I love it and I love you and I will get around to responding to it now that the Trauma that has been my grad school experience is almost over. stay safe out there everybody


	5. Mission Days 698-700

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: opioid withdrawal, discussion of drug abuse

**MISSION DAY 698, CONT'D**

"Looks like someone slept well." Raven's words, altogether too loud, were accompanied by a gentle rub of knuckles across Octavia's scalp.

Octavia groaned softly, her face pressed to the table top. "I fucking wish." She released her tight hold on her coffee mug in favour of digging her fingertips into her temples. Her attempts at massaging away the tension that sat there were becoming less and less effective with each passing day.

Raven straddled the bench beside her and tipped forward, dropping her forehead against Octavia's shoulder. "Did something go down last night? Sounded like a bit of a ruckus."

"Nothing, it's dealt with."

"Well, which was it? 'Nothing' or something?"

Octavia propped her elbows on the tabletop and pushed herself up into a seated position with a heavy sigh. "Clarke needed a top-up on her pain meds."

"An unauthorized one, I'm guessing?" Raven gave her a moment's pause in which to respond, but Octavia refused to take the bait. "Oxy or morphine?" 

Octavia froze at the question, brain going into overdrive as she scrambled to figure out what she'd let slip. There wasn't anything glaring, not that she'd said that morning... Her eyes narrowed, and she jostled Raven from her shoulder and raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

Raven shrugged nonchalantly, a rueful twist to her mouth. "I'm pretty well-acquainted with drug addiction, Blake. I had my suspicions."

"And you didn't think to address them to me?"

"I figured you had it under control. My apologies for having such a high opinion of your competence."

Octavia rolled her eyes, but allowed Raven to resume her position propped against her shoulder. "Yeah, yeah, sweet talker. Vicodin, for the record." 

She drummed her fingers on the tabletop, lost in thought, and Raven took advantage of the inattention to swipe Octavia's coffee mug and take a swig. She paused mid-sip, staring appraisingly at the contents, and then drained the mug.

Octavia fiddled with the strap of her comms device, pulling the end free of the keeper and then tucking it back underneath. Raven shifted closer again, burrowing her face into Octavia's sweater, and Octavia exhaled and rested her cheek against the top of Raven's head. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do," she admitted softly, hooking a finger between her comms device and wrist and tugging at the strap.

"Treatment-wise? Because if you're looking for answers there, you're coming to the wrong person. My mom's idea of withdrawal management consisted of tracking down her dealer and shooting up with whatever she could find."

Octavia laughed under her breath. "She and Clarke would've gotten along just fine, then. Not that, though. She doesn't want me to tell anyone what she's dealing with. Not ground, not the crew."

"Well, doesn't that sound familiar."

" _Thank_ you." Octavia freed her fingers from the strap of her comms device so she could slap her palm down on the table to underscore her words. "That's exactly what I wanted to say to her. I don't know how I ended up as the go-to secret keeper, but I'm getting tired of it."

Raven laid a hand on her back, rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades. Octavia let herself melt into the comfort the action provided, leaning into Raven just as much as Raven leaned into her. "Then tell her that. She doesn't know what happened, and her reads on people are, understandably, straight-up awful right now. She'll never pick up on your vibes on her own. And all power to her if she thinks she can keep _anything_ a secret on this ship, let alone something as obvious as this. It isn't going to happen, but you gotta respect the intent."

"And once that's dealt with? I feel like everyone keeps forgetting that I'm not a general practitioner. I'm a medical _researcher_. I chalked the early symptoms of her withdrawal up to a respiratory bug because I don't have any experience with this whatsoever. I'm flying blind here, Rae."

She felt Raven shrug against her side. "You do the best you can. Support her. Be there for her. There isn't a manual for this right now, but one day you're gonna wake up and realize you've basically written one."

Octavia slumped back onto the table with an overdramatic huff. "Fuck, they're _actually_ going to make me write one."

"Oh, for sure. And they'll shelve it right next to the encyclopedia Clarke's gonna have to write. _Stirring Shit Up: Everything a Moron Needs to Know to Survive on Mars_."

Octavia choked out a bemused laugh and kicked at Raven's ankle. "That was _awful_. The only moron on this ship is you."

* * *

**MISSION DAY 698, CONT'D**

"How're you feeling?" Octavia bustled into Clarke's room and set an armful of equipment on the desk. 

Seated with her back pressed into the corner, Clarke gave a short laugh, then winced and bent in half, clutching at her ribs. "Been worse."

"Been better too, though."

Clarke sucked a breath in through gritted teeth before turning a sharp grin to Octavia. "At this point, I think 'not completely shit' is about the best we can hope for."

"Fair enough." She tugged the chair out from Clarke's desk and dropped heavily into it. "We need to come up with a plan of action for all of this. One that you're more involved in this time. That shit you pulled can't happen again."

"I know."

"I can't operate appropriately if I have to spend half my time worrying if I'm going to trip over you overdosing in the corridor."

"I know."

"You've got to talk to me, Clarke."

"I said I _know_ , Blake," Clarke snapped, hand pressed to the side of her ribcage. "I am _trying_. I'm trying _so_ hard. You have to believe me. Do you think I _want_ this?"

"Honestly, Griffin, I don't know what I'm supposed to think." Octavia sighed and crossed her arms, staring straight at Clarke. "You say one thing, but your actions tell a completely different story, and I don't know which one you expect me to have any faith in."

"My _words_ , O. _I_ don't even trust my own actions. I know what I should do, but I can't stop myself. I can't keep myself under control." She propped her elbows on her knees and dropped her head into her hands, her voice muffled against her palms. "You were right."

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

Clarke looked up, bloodshot eyes burning. "You were right," she repeats, each word a pulled tooth, ripped out by the root. "I need help. I can't do this on my own."

Octavia's face softened, and she nodded. "That's what I'm here for, Griff. Glad you've come around to trusting me on this."

"Don't pretend like I had any other option," Clarke shot back, her gaze breaking away as she sneered.

The ferocity with which Octavia rolled her eyes gave her a spot of vertigo. "Wouldn't dream of it. Let's get down to business, shall we?"

* * *

**AUDIO LOG: GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 698, 2113 hrs**

I'm exhausted.

Drained.

And despite that I still can't seem to sleep.

Half of the time I hate this insomnia, but the other half I'm endlessly thankful for it. Because sleeping means nightmares — well, no, not nightmares; there's no night in space, so they can't be nightmares — sleeping means awful dreams, and sleeping means waking up, which means a nice little period of heart-stopping fear as I try to work out whether I'm actually here or just trapped in another awful dream.

In the worst of those moments, I worry that maybe this is just flashes of existence. Not sleep, not even dreams, but the last-ditch efforts of exhausted neurons trying to build me a refuge as I starve to death in the rover.

Not that the time I spend awake is all that much better. I keep seesawing between these fits of shivering so badly that my teeth chatter, and moments where I feel like I could peel my skin from my bones and it still wouldn't be enough to cool me down. Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and—

I'm getting off track here...

Okay. Alrighty. Pitter patter, let's get at 'er. 

Did I have a point or…

Whoops, yeah, maybe I didn't. Sorry to disappoint.

* * *

**AUDIO LOG: GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 698, 2131 hrs**

Right, right, yeah, okay. Octavia's got me on a schedule now. That's what I meant to talk about last time. I can't sleep, so it's gonna be hard to stick to the schedule. Right. Okay.

You should see this shit. Looks like a kindergartener's schedule that would be stuck on a fridge door with alphabet manners. It's all colour-coded in red, yellow, and blue, and oversized. Like, the font is at least an inch tall. I don't know if maybe she thinks I'm going blind too, or what else might be up with that. 

And I haven't even gotten to the _pièce de résistance_ yet. This schedule? It's fucking _laminated_. To be honest— and, if nothing else, we should always strive to be _honest_ — I wasn't even aware that we had a laminator on board. The more you know.

It's a brave new world up here, boys and girls.

But if you think the layout is a bit juvenile, you ain't seen nothing yet.

Well, you haven't seen anything at all anyways, what with the audio format. Oops.

Note to self: upload copy of dailies as appendix to log for ease of future mockery.

The schedule itself, the contents of it? Straight outta preschool. I've got periods blocked out as snack time, reading, physical activity - as desired, nap time. Every time I reread it I half expect the next item on it to be 'learn to tie shoelaces' or 'sharing is caring' or something else along those lines. I'm surprised she didn't just call the exercise block 'recess' to complete the effect.

All of this is in an effort to distract me from the pain in my head and my chest and my back. To try and keep me from obsessing over where Octavia might have hidden the meds.

It's not working all that well thus far.

It feels like every single ache I've accumulated in the past year and a half is slamming into me with all the weight of a sledgehammer, and it fucking _hurts_. There's no position I can lay in where it doesn't feel as though one part of my body or another is being impaled by an ice pick or something, and my _head_ —

It's not that bad right now, by which I mean it's still pretty awful, but at least it doesn't feel as though a vise is clamped around my temples and being tightened oh so slowly. Like any more pressure and my head would explode. 

Where's the slots in my schedule for curling in on myself in the corner of my bunk, head wedged between my knees as I pray to a god I don't believe in that something will stop my brain from melting in my skull. Hey, Octavia? Did you block time out for that? 

I'm a scientist. Logically, I know the things I want are self-destructive in the long-term. Logically, I know the pain won't last. 'This too shall pass', et cetera, et cetera. But it's so, so, so hard to conceive of any sort of future when it feels like I'm having an aneurysm right fucking now. When I know exactly what could stop it, if only I let myself cave, if I just succumbed to the cravings. 

_Fuck_. Where's that list Octavia wrote out for me? This isn't—

* * *

**MISSION DAY 699**

Ten minutes to reveille. Anya pursed her lips and stared at the ceiling, mentally outlining the day's tasks and trying her best to ignore the fatigue that had taken root in her bones. 

Crew meeting first thing. Check the flight path updates and integrate as needed. Run safety checks on the internal flight gear, modify—

Raven unceremoniously rolled on top of her, slid a thigh between her legs, and Anya lost hold of that train of thought. She grabbed a fistful of Raven's hair instead, arched up into the pressure, rolled her hips.

"Gotta be quick," she mumbled against the press of Raven's lips.

"Well, aren't you easy." Raven grinned and kissed the underside of her jaw, and proceeded to dismantle her. 

Minutes later, Raven slumped on top of her and whispering sweet nothings into her ear, Anya caught sight of the time again. She shoved at Raven's shoulder until she deigned to move, then sat up and dragged her hands down her face, yawned into her palms.

Raven cuddled up to her side, dropped a kiss below her ear. Anya rolled her eyes and elbowed her in the ribs before rising. "You're incorrigible. We need to go, we're gonna be late."

"Ugh, fine, duty calls before booty calls. Work is the _worst_." Raven hurtled from the bed and lightly hip-checked Anya out of the way in her rush to grab her clothes.

Anya shook her head as she tugged on a fresh top. "Why the fuck do I like you?"

"I have it on good authority that you _love_ me, which is, like, a thousand times more embarrassing for you." Raven smirked as she darted forward in an attempt to steal a kiss.

Anya evaded the foray smoothly and bent to pull on her shoes. "Whoever told you that must have been off their rocker. I tolerate you at best."

"Aw, I tolerate you too, Ahn."

"Let's go, get a move on." She stepped towards the door, but Raven stilled her with a gentle touch to her wrist.

"Love you," Raven murmured, kissing her cheek as Anya felt it go red.

"Love you too." She dropped a kiss on Raven's shoulder as she brushed past. She moved to follow her through the door only to have it shut in her face. "You _asshole_!"

The only response she received was Raven's peals of laughter echoing down the corridor, and she grumbled under her breath but followed anyway.

After a brief detour to the washroom, Anya reached the kitchen. She touched a hand to Raven's hip to grab her attention, then snatched the full coffee mug from Raven's grasp. Ignoring Raven's protests, she leaned up against the counter at Lexa's side and took a swig.

Lexa loosed a full-body sigh before giving her a nod and a mumbled greeting. The bags under her eyes were heavier yet, but she appeared marginally more put together than she had in quite a while. 

"Good morning to you, too," Anya returned, raising her voice to be heard over the pointed clamour of Raven's assembly of a fresh cup of coffee. "Griff joining us today?"

Lexa stiffened, but shook her head. "Presumably not." She snagged a mug of tea from the countertop, passing it to Lincoln as he entered the room and receiving his nod of thanks before she continued. "Blake's checking in on her now."

"Are we going to wait on her before we start?"

"No, no need to waste time. Let's get underway. Schmidt, you'll catch Blake up on anything she misses?"

"Of course, Commander." Lincoln smiled against the lip of his mug for a brief moment before he caught himself and schooled his expression back to neutral.

"Great, thank you. We'll start with the ship repairs progress reports. Reyes, do you have a status update on the water reclaimer?"

"I dealt with the software issues, and couldn't find anything wrong with the hardware. Nothing to worry about, folks. Yesterday's coffee is still tomorrow's coffee." Raven sketched a dramatic bow, blew a kiss to Lexa. 

"And next month's coffee," Anya muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Speaking of coffee," Octavia grumbled, sweeping into the room and snatching Raven's fresh mug from her hand. She ignored the squawks of protest and drained the mug, then passed it back over in exchange for a stink eye. "That's disgusting."

(" _Then make your own_ ," Raven hissed, digging through the cupboards in search of yet another mug.)

"Thanks for joining us, Blake." Lexa nodded to her before turning her gaze on Lincoln. "Schmidt, where do we stand on repairing the components damaged by the VAL breach? 

"I've completed the simpler tasks, but there's damage to two or three of the more complex internal systems that I would rather not attempt to fix on my own for fear of damaging them further. Clarke's input in those cases would be valuable."

"Thank you for getting started on that. Do we have a potential timeline for Griffin's return to work, Blake?"

"Huh?" Octavia startled, glancing around, gears turning behind tired eyes as she tried to catch up. "Oh. Griff—" She cut herself off and shared a look with Raven that felt far too heavy for comfort.

Anya pursed her lips in thought, kept her eyes on Raven until she met her gaze. _Later_ , Raven mouthed, and Anya gave a tiny nod in response. 

"With Griffin" — Octavia yawned into the crook of her arm — "We've had a… setback. She's going through pretty severe opioid withdrawal. Any sort of plan for a return to work is shelved for now."

Anya glanced at Lexa out of the corner of her eye, watched as she lifted her chin, bit the inside of her cheek. She reached over and rested a hand against Lexa's, comforting and grounding. "How can we help, O?" Lexa sent her a grateful look and squeezed her hand.

"I've got the pharmaceutical side of things covered. I've had to relocate the meds from the sickbay, so if any of you need an NSAID or anything you'll have to ask. I can't have her knowing where I'm keeping them.

"What she'll need from you guys is your presence and your unconditional support. She's being shitty and aggressive and mean, but don't take it personally, and don't let her pick fights with you. She's going through a whole new fresh hell, so just try to be patient with her." Octavia stared down into her mug as though searching for her next words, then shrugged a shoulder. "It'd be great if all of you could spend time with her as frequently as possible. She needs something to concentrate on outside of her own head. Beyond that? Jackson sent some literature that you guys could have a look at. Get a better idea of what she's going through, I guess."

Lexa's throat worked as she swallowed hard. Then she cleared her throat, gave Anya's fingers one last squeeze before dropping her hand. "Thank you, Blake. I'd really appreciate it if everyone had those papers read by this evening. Schmidt, in light of these circumstances, could you get a second opinion from CAPCOM regarding the necessary repairs?"

"Of course, Commander."

"Reyes, lend him a hand with that, please."

"Dream team," Raven sing-songed, clinking her mug against Lincoln's with a smirk that made Anya's heart race. (" _Have you taken a dive into the code yet?_ " Raven asked, voice flush with new enthusiasm.)

"Great, thanks. Does anyone have anything else they'd like to address? Peters?"

Anya shook her head and shot Lexa an asymmetric grin. "I'm low maintenance as always, boss. Looks like everyone else has a pretty full plate, so I'll sit in with Griff today. See if I can't finally beat her at chess."

"I'd appreciate that. If the rest of you are good, that's a wrap. Great work, everyone. Get some breakfast in you and then keep on crushing it."

* * *

**AUDIO LOG: GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 699, 1858 hrs**

Have I mentioned lately how pissed off I am about the whole food situation? Because I'm super pissed off about the whole food situation.

At least it's in a fun new way this time around.

When I was planet-side, the thought of eating something with a texture that wasn't 'starch' helped me get through the whole thing. Which is pretty pathetic, if you give it too much thought. But those couple meals I rationed out for special occasions? Those were absolute highlights. Not that it took much for something to be a highlight of that hellhole. But dreams about meat and, like, crackers — Yeah, I dreamed about saltines. Peak pathetic — dreams about food with any kind of crunch or heft or feel to them were frequent. I was so stoked for them when I got aboard. But then Octavia went full-on Pantry Police — and rightly so, I'll admit now — and I got none of those.

And now, irony of ironies, Octavia's one hundred percent ready and willing to let me have that, and it's my own body that's rebelling against it. Even the thought of something crunching in my mouth nauseates me. Sludge is about the only thing I can stomach right now. 

I'm a kindergartner crying for her juice box. It's a goddamn tragedy.

* * *

**AUDIO LOG: GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 700, 0317 hours**

Any attempt at some sort of sleep schedule is still proving to be a lost cause.

I've spent as many nights — well, lights down, I guess; we really don't have a word for non-standard cycles, huh? I mean, if we go by the clock, it's night, but that's more of a 'time is a social construct' thing than an 'it's nighttime' thing, because 'night' is pretty strictly a celestial body concept, and— Oh, fuck it, I'm just going to call it nighttime. To do anything else would just be the epitome of pedantry.

To get back on track: I've spent as many _nights_ wandering the ship as I have actually getting some rest. More, maybe. When I'm not nauseous to the brink of vomiting, at least. So that's always cool.

Maybe not that many nights? I don't— I'm losing track of time. I forgot how tough it is to transition from a day-night cycle to, well, whatever you want to call it here. Lights up-lights down cycle? I dunno. But without a sun to kickstart my circadian rhythm everything's all blurred together, indistinct and smeared, and I can't tell where anything begins or ends or—

I can't remember what I did yesterday, or the day before, or the day before. Not with any certainty. Every day feels the same, like it's been copied and pasted into my head. And it seems like every night I find myself standing outside of Lexa's bunk. Even when I try to keep myself away, I just end up getting drawn back, like there's this magnet in my chest or something. Earlier I found myself with my forehead pressed up against the door, but I couldn't bring myself to knock. 

She doesn't need this. 

Doesn't need me.

Whoever it is I am now, anyways. Most of the time I don't know what's me and what's the addiction and what's the starvation and what's the depression and—

I thought I'd come back and, _poof_ , I'd be happy. Like magic. Can hardly remember what it feels like, but I was so ready to know again. But now I'm here, and I'm not happy. I'm not anything, really? A walking ball of anger and anxiety, maybe, but beyond that there's nothing. Space opens up around me out here, and it works its way into my head, burrows in deep and lays waste to my ability to feel.

Which is why if I'm ever happy again, I'll be terrified. Because I don't think it'll really be me. I don't think there's anything left that can feel happy. The real Clarke disappeared somewhere beneath all the labels. She's been deconstructed into her base parts and keeps getting reused and reused and reused and—

And—

And someday soon she's gonna be all used up.

Who am I supposed to be then?

* * *

**MISSION DAY 700**

Lexa knocked on the door to Clarke's quarters, waited for a response to come before entering. She slid the door shut behind her softly, wincing at the click that echoed through the room when the latch slid into place. "Hey, Griffin."

A loud groan came from the blankets heaped at the head of the bunk. "Did Blake send you here to tear me down, too?"

Already moving towards the bedside, Lexa faltered, stumbled to a halt, her hands hanging uselessly at her success. "I just wanted to check in on you. See how you were holding up."

"Well, you've seen me. Mission accomplished. Goodbye." The blanket lump rolled to face the wall, curled in tighter, rocked back and forth.

Lexa took the last few steps and kicked a toe against the side of the bed. "Didn't know you'd transformed into a duvet. The lack of hands must have made it somewhat more difficult to thrash Peters at chess."

A hand slipped from the sheets, middle finger raised. "A fucking Speak & Spell could beat Anya in three moves. It's not like it's hard."

"How would that even work?"

"They're pretty extensible; the stock toy likely wouldn't have the memory to store a game but you could build out a project box for a chess module, and— Oh, fuck off." Clarke threw back the blanket, exposing a dark scowl. "Can you just go? Run back to Octavia and let her know the addict is still alive and suffering. No need to waste your day in here."

Lexa swallowed thickly and gingerly took a seat at the end of the bunk. She folded her hands together in her lap and kept her gaze fixed on the opposite wall. "This isn't a box for me to check off. I'm not here out of some misguided sense of duty. I'm here because I'm your friend and I care about you and you're hurting. I'm here for _you_. I know you were at my door last night. Next time, knock. Ring my comm. Anything. I'll be there, no matter when, no matter what, for whatever you need."

"How long did it take you to come up with that? CAPCOM help you out?" Clarke's voice was laced through with scorn, but Lexa couldn't help but note the way her shoulders dropped and loosened, the slight downtick in her breathing rate.

A snort escaped despite her best efforts to contain it. "You know that if I were taking cues from Gustus, there'd be—"

"A lot more yelling, yeah." Clarke laughed weakly and rolled onto her back. "And a lot more guilt-tripping about my dad."

"I would never—"

"No, I know. Believe me, I know." She covered her face with one hand and drummed her fingertips against her forehead. Silence stretched around them, swaddled them up, and then— "I saw him, you know? Well, you've probably read the log transcripts, so you'd know. It was—"

Lexa shook her head jerkily, struggling to find words that could adequately address the weight of that specific phrase. "I didn't. Listen to the logs, I mean, or read them. I won't. The only one of us who has the slightest idea what's in there is Octavia, and that's only because ground reached out to her about a couple things."

"Oh," Clarke breathed, rolling onto her side again and propping up her chin with her fist . "I'd kind of just assumed—"

"We're not about to invade your privacy, Clarke. You did whatever you had to do to survive, and whether or not you choose to share that with anyone is your prerogative."

"Well, mine and NASA's."

Lexa grimaced. "True. Did they send you the redactions to review?"

Clarke nodded, a greenish tinge sweeping into her cheeks. "I'm not ready."

"Would you like me to tell Gustus that?"

"I'd like to just not think about it at all right now, if it's all the same."

"Not even your dad? You said you… saw him?"

Clarke tugged her blanket tight around her shoulders. " _Especially_ not my dad. Can we just drop it?"

"Of course." Lexa watched the slight rock of Clarke's form beneath her blankets for a moment, her heart pounding a tattoo against her ribcage. "I think I mentioned this the other day, but Raven and Anya are sharing a bunk."

Clarke's eyes widened, brightened. " _Please_ spill."

"The climate control failed in Anya's quarters. A problem with the coolant tubing that was beyond the scope of our limited abilities." She winced at her phrasing, but Clarke just snorted. 

"Well, duh. None of you should ever touch a screwdriver."

"Harsh but fair," Lexa conceded with a small smile. "Anya kept sleeping in the airlock, so I called the pair of them out on it and made them bunk up together."

"They weren't exactly subtle, huh."

"I'm just glad I don't have to listen to them try to explain away hickeys anymore."

"You're not upset with them, are you?"

"No? Why would I be?"

Clarke scoffed. "Right, right. 'Rules for me and not for thee' and all that jazz. Of course."

"It's not putting anyone at risk or interfering with their duties. Who am I to prevent them from seeking comfort in each other?"

"You really don't hear yourself, huh?" Clarke snickered, turned over so she could shake her head at Lexa. 

"It's not the same," Lexa rebutted weakly, her cheeks burning. She stared down at her lap, pressed the pad of her thumb to the scarring on the back of her hand. "Octavia and Lincoln might as well be bunking together, too."

Clarke's eyes narrowed at the transparent avoidance, but she let it pass. "I am _shocked_ ," she deadpanned. "Who could have ever seen that coming."

"I know, it's absolutely beyond belief."

"How's NASA feel about that?"

"NASA doesn't have to know everything that happens in this ship," Lexa replied, her tone carefully measured. "There are some secrets better left between crew members. For as long as we can keep it that way, at least."

"Hmm. And what about you, my fellow fifth wheel? You got one of those secrets?"

Her mouth went dry in an instant, but by some miracle she managed to keep her face blank. She shook her head. "I'm an open book, Clarke."

"Don't really think that counts when half your pages are redacted."

Lexa sighed heavily, letting her head drop back. "Could we maybe hold off on taking potshots at one another for today?"

Clarke shrunk in on herself. "I just want to know that you're at least coping—"

"If you want to get into it about coping mechanisms, then you can be sure the first thing we'll discuss is this habit you've gotten into of trying to distance yourself through sarcasm and poor attempts at humour." Lexa unclenched her jaw and rubbed at the knot just in front of her ear, tried to work the tension from her muscle and the edge from her voice. "The rest of us have had our share of trauma too, Clarke, same as you. Not to the same extent, certainly, but we all have things we'd rather not talk about."

"I'm sorry."

"I know." Her hand moved towards Clarke's legs, prepared to pat comfortingly at her calf, but she forced it to land on the mattress instead. "How are you feeling?"

"Nauseated. Overheating. The whole shebang." Clarke grunted, tugged on her blanket, lifted her head up to meet Lexa's eyes. "Every second of this feels awful, and I'd rather not focus on it any more than I have to, so can we talk about something else? How's your research going? How are your rocks?"

"You don't want to hear about rocks."

Clarke cracked a weak smile. "No, I really don't. I just wanna hear you, and if I've gotta learn me some rock facts in order for that to happen, that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

Lexa glanced away, trying to calm herself, darted her tongue out to wet her lips. "I could read you the lab notes we took for your experiments."

"Please don't. I'm in no mood for a horror story."

Lexa gasped, clutched a hand to her chest. "I resent the insinuation. I'll have you know that the haworthia you gave me is not only alive, but thriving."

Clarke stared at her for a long moment, her mouth falling open, and then she shook her head and laughed. "Oh, Lexa, no. Poor, sweet, naïve Lexa. Those are almost impossible to kill."

"That makes… a considerable amount more sense than the alternative explanation."

"Hey, don't get too down on yourself over it. You just have the biggest brown thumb on the ship, that's all. I chose Cyg specifically because it was a plant you'd have to try really, _really_ hard to kill."

Much like its gifter, Lexa mused. Her throat felt thick as emotion washed over her. "You made a good call, then," she said gruffly, flexing her fingers as she looked anywhere but towards Clarke. "Do you want to watch something?" she asked softly, finally finding the strength to allow her gaze to fall on Clarke's face.

Clarke laughed, though her accompanying smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Boring you that much, am I?"

"No, I'm not— I thought—"

"Hey, I'm just messing with you, Lex. But, no, thank you. Not only have I watched enough TV recently to last a couple years, I also know where your tastes lie, and it's in trash." Clarke made a fist around something, gripped it so tight her knuckles went white. She was pensive, her lip pinned between her teeth as though there were something on her mind she was afraid to voice. Then she took a deep breath. "Could you— Would you read to me? A book, I mean. Definitely not lab notes."

Lexa's face softened. "Of course. Did you have something specific in mind?"

"Anything, I don't care. I just need a distraction." A beat, and then— "No rocks, either."

"No promises," Lexa said with a wink, and grabbed her tablet. As she shifted back on the bunk until her spine was pressed to the wall, there was movement in her peripheral. She froze, palms going sweaty as she watched Clarke shift positions, stretch out and tug a blanket over herself, and pillow her head on Lexa's thigh.

A squeak forced its way past the catch in Lexa's throat.

"Is this okay?" Clarke asked, her voice small.

Lexa gritted her teeth as Clarke shifted her position. She thought maybe she'd felt the graze of Clarke's lips against her kneecap, but that couldn't be right. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?" 

"I'm not the one who just made a sound like a rubber chicken."

Lexa chuckled. "Fair enough. I'm comfortable with whatever you're comfortable with, Clarke. Whatever your limits are. If you need contact, I can give you contact, and if you need space, that's yours too."

"Oh." Clarke rolled her head so she could look up at Lexa. "You and Octavia are the only people I've let touch me since I got back," she admitted quickly, quietly, and then she hid her face in Lexa's pant leg. "Just so you know." And as if to prove the point, she reached out blindly, fumbled around to locate Lexa's free arm. She tugged on the limp limb, dragged and coaxed and pulled, until Lexa's hand rested on the side of her head. 

"Thank you for trusting me," Lexa choked out as the lump in her throat grew larger, suffocating. Her hand was deathly still, too afraid to move an inch, and she stared at it, transfixed by the way the light caught in Clarke's hair.

The quiet panic settling in went unobserved by Clarke, who poked incessantly at her knee. "You gonna read or what?"

Lexa huffed out a fond laugh that weighed heavy with emotion. She cleared her throat, though she could tell in an instant it wasn't nearly enough to get her tone back to anything near even, and flicked through the library on her tablet. She hovered her finger over a specific title, closing her eyes as she tried to recall whether there was anything in the text that might precipitate a meltdown. With a small, satisfied nod, she opened the book and began to read.

" _There was once a boy named Milo who didn’t know what to do with himself — not just sometimes, but always._ "

An inordinate burst of pride shot through Lexa when her tone didn't even waver as Clarke's hand found a home on her knee.

* * *

" _— seemed a great wonder that the world, which was so large, could sometimes feel so small and empty._ "

The hand resting on Lexa's leg tightened, Clarke's nails digging into her skin through her pants, and Clarke turned her face to the fabric, her back shaking as she clutched at Lexa like a lifeline.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't think—" Lexa's heart climbed into her throat, and she grasped for something, _anything_ , as she attempted to hold herself together. "How can I help? Do you want me to stop?"

Clarke shook her head, her grip on Lexa's thigh verging on painful. "S'okay, keep going."

"Clarke, I don't want to upset you. Would you like me to choose a different book?"

"Keep going. The only thing that'll upset me is if you don't do voices."

Lexa gave an exaggerated shudder. "No. No, no. Not happening."

"Please?"

When had she ever been able to resist those eyes? She sighed and nodded sharply. "Oh, alright. I'll do the voices. But I'd like the fact that I'm only doing this under duress noted."

Clarke grinned. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

" _— Without stopping or looking up, he rushed past the buildings and busy shops that lined the street and in a few minutes reached home._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the delay getting this up. my masters is officially complete as of today, so that's a whole-ass load off my back and maybe I'll be able to rediscover a writing voice that isn't as Maladjusted Academic. thank you all for your comments; I really appreciate you taking the time to write them, and I really enjoy hearing what you've got to say. Hope you and yours stay safe this holiday season!


	6. Mission Days 702-704

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: suicidal ideation, some discussion of drug abuse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a bit of a rough one, so use your best judgement and look after yourselves please

**AUDIO LOG: GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 702, 1604 hours**

I can't remember what time it is, what day it is, what _year_ it is. How long I've been on board. Everything's all messy, bleeding together around a handful of setpoints. O doses me in the morning. One of the crew drops in, ostensibly to hang out with me but in actuality to keep my withdrawal in check. O doses me in the evening. Everything else is a dense fog of pain and urges, broken up by huge swathes of lost time.

Raven got the water reclaimer working, so I tried to shower yesterday, because my sweat reeked of something chemical and I felt absolutely filthy. Keyword there being 'tried'. I'm not used to touch as it is, and _especially_ not like that, uncontrolled and unpredictable. It was like acid rain on my skin. Like I was going to melt into a puddle and drip down the drain.

I ended up huddled in the corner until the auto shutoff kicked in. Around ten minutes, then, I guess. It felt… fuzzy. Whited out. Like that time passed in the blink of an eye.

The exhaustion in my limbs, the bruising I found today on my knees and elbows, tells me that maybe I don't really want to know what happened during those ten minutes.

All of that was primarily a touch thing, a tactile thing. I should probably count myself lucky that I don't seem to have developed any issues around water. Which makes sense, in a way. Beyond the whole 'I turned the Hab into a giant bomb' fuck-up, the only water-related problems that cropped up were easily rectified by performing regular maintenance on the reclaimer. That was probably the least stressful part of my time planet-side. Certainly less anxiety-provoking than the Hab canvas.

My grasp on reality as a whole is slipping, though, I think. I whited out yesterday, and even outside of that I keep losing time, keep jumping around in fits and spurts. Keep finding half-incoherent audio logs I don't remember making. I know it's, like, dissociation or some other psychobabble bullshit that I should probably bring to someone's attention, but the crew—

They try not to, I know they try not to, but when they look at me there's pity in their eyes. And I'm scared that, if I bring this up, those looks might never go away.

So instead I'll just take it as it comes. Closing my eyes in the kitchen and opening them again to the wall of my quarters. My head on Lexa's knee, and then I blink and she's three chapters deep by—

I don't fucking know anymore. Maybe I'm losing my mind. Sometimes I'll look at one of them and they're them, but they're not? Like they're a new crew, same as the old crew, except not quite all there. Something's gotten lost along the way.

And _Lexa_. Fuck. She's always been so sure of herself. Every decision and action calculated, measured. Now she's tentative. She keeps holding back, never making the first move, and I know she wants to. I see all the aborted motions, the way she stares at her hands like they've betrayed her. But she's so soft and gentle and considerate and honest and selfless and sometimes it just makes me want to _scream_. Casual touches were such a big thing in our relationship, before— Well, _before_. I'd be in the kitchen and her hand would land on my hip as she reached around me to grab something. She'd pat my shoulder as she passed me in the lab, knock elbows with me if I made a good (read: awful) joke on a night off. All these tiny moments assuring each other we were there, we were present, we were real. 

And now she won't initiate contact.

I get it, believe me, I get it. No one wants to set off the basket case if they can help it. But is reciprocity really too much to ask for?

Just fucking _touch_ me. Show me I'm real.

 _Please_.

* * *

**MISSION DAY 704**

Lexa paced back and forth across the command deck, hands clasped behind her back, spine straight, chin raised. "Anything?"

"Nothing. Just like when you last asked me a minute ago." Raven glanced back over her shoulder and grimaced. "Would you knock it off? I can't concentrate with you over there wearing a rut in the floor tiles."

"What about now?" Lexa asked again, barely registering Raven's words. She reached the console at one end of the deck and spun, and made her way back.

She jumped when a hand closed around her wrist. "Callaghan, c'mon, chill out. I'll let you know the moment I get a message back. In the meantime, can you _please_ be anywhere else? Like, dude, I love you and all, but you're driving me up the wall. If you've got this much energy to burn, why don't you go see what Clarke's up to. Maybe she can help you out with that."

Heat suffused her face, climbed to the tips of her ears. "What exactly do you think you're suggesting, Reyes?"

"Just thought she might be down for a trip to the gym or something, that's all," Raven replied, the picture of innocence.

"That's what I thought." Lexa sighed, "You'll reach out immediately?"

"The second it comes through."

"Thank you." She stepped into the hall, knocking the toe of her boot against the floor as she glanced back and forth. She shrugged to herself and headed for the ladder, yawning into her elbow as she went.

She wasn't going to go in search of Clarke, not with Raven's true implication weighing on her mind. Yes, the Code of Conduct had long since fallen by the wayside for the rest of the crew, and she didn't begrudge them that, but this was different. This was _Clarke_ , and at this point Clarke _was_ the mission. Professionalism was the only option that she could envision leading to success.

Caught up in her thoughts, she spun away from the ladder and ran headfirst into someone. She stumbled back a step, rubbing gingerly at her chin, and looked up with an apology on her tongue.

Clarke flinched away from her, arms cradled around her ribs, shoulders hunched and face screwed up in pain. 

Lexa took a step back, raising her hands. "Sorry! Are you okay?" Clarke's eyes stared past her, blank and unseeing, and Lexa stepped into her line of sight. "Clarke? Are you alright?"

"Huh?" Clarke shook her head, her eyes clearing, and jolted when she registered Lexa's presence. "Oh, I'm fine, Commander, all good in the hood." She laughed nervously and nodded at the ladder. "You going back up, or can I get through there?"

Lexa's gaze was drawn to the incessant tapping of Clarke's fingertips against her side. "Where are you off to? I thought you and Schmidt were going to be in the lab?"

"Wasn't feeling up to it." Clarke shrugged. "Was planning on settling in for another Netflix and sludge session."

"Didn't Blake drop a cache of pouches in your quarters?"

"Oh, yeah, duh." Clarke smacked her palm against her forehead, the motion stiff and exaggerated. "What would I ever do without you, huh? Guess I'll just—" She gestured back towards her quarters.

"I was headed to the gym," Lexa said quickly, a discomforting notion prickling away in her brain. "Would you like to join me?"

"I'm on the verge of puking, Lexa. Last thing I want to do right now is go for a run."

"You don't have to do anything, I-" Lexa cleared her throat. "I would just enjoy your company."

Clarke's eyes focused past her, but she nodded. "Okay, sure. I'll grab stuff from my bunk and meet you over there, yeah?"

A muscle in Lexa's jaw jumped, and she ground her teeth. "I'll wait," she gritted out, forcing a smile.

"Sure, cool. Just gimme a sec."

Lexa watched as Clarke entered her quarters, then ducked into her own, keeping one ear on the door as she quickly snatched up a change of athletic gear.

When she stepped back into the hall, Clarke was trying to sneak up towards the ladder.

"Just a heads-up, we're not keeping the meds in the sickbay anymore."

Clarke's hands dropped to her sides, her back tensing, but when she turned around she sported a rueful grin. "Busted. I know; I was the one who asked Octavia to move them. I just—" She shook her head and gestured vaguely at her temple. "What's going on up here, it's not exactly a rational thought process. Alright? And I'm aware of that, but that's not always going to translate to rational action."

Lexa sighed, rubbing at her eyes. "Fair enough, but that's not going to stop me from worrying."

She gave Lexa a half-hearted shrug.

A sour taste bloomed in the back of Lexa's throat, and she set her mouth, hands curling towards fists at her sides. "Go grab your training kit," she replied sharply, jerking her head towards Clarke's quarters.

Clarke shook her head. "I was being serious about the nausea. I won't hesitate to throw up on the treadmill."

"I'm not going to make you run. Get your kit."

A fierce scowl was given in response, but Clarke complied with the instruction all the same.

* * *

Clarke lounged on the exercise bike, legs kicked up over the handlebars, as Lexa got up to speed on the treadmill. She resolutely avoided looking at Clarke, staring out the porthole instead, but she caught enough glimpses in her periphery to make her stomach roil.

Lexa glanced down, focused on the rhythm of her strides, the thud of sole against tread providing a frantic beat to her racing thoughts. It was the first time she'd seen Clarke without a multitude of layers, and it was somewhat horrifying. Gaunt was the word she'd use to describe her, bundled into the regulation kit and making faces at her. Her stick-thin limbs were swamped by the loose fabric, her torso drowning in the shirt. The two weeks back aboard the Ark had done little to help her put on any weight.

Clarke's full-body shiver drew Lexa's attention, and she looked over as Clarke retracted her arms inside the shirt. 

"You can put on a sweater, Clarke. I just wanted to decrease the barriers to getting started, so if you changed your mind on exercising you wouldn't have to push through a handful of tangentially related tasks in order to get at it."

"So sweet of you," Clarke muttered, her voice sour. "But no way is that happening."

Lexa stepped to straddle the treadmill belt and turned to face Clarke. "Maintenance of physical fitness is paramount at this point of the mission. Every other astronaut on this crew is getting their requisite exercise in." She ran a hand through her hair and exhaled. "Clarke, you asked me not to treat you as though you're fragile. If you'd like to retract that request, that's fine, but don't get curt with me for honouring it."

"I haven't changed my mind."

"Noted. Then, I'm not going to force you to run, but you have to do _something_."

Clarke swung her legs and sighed. "Fine. If I must." She levered herself from the bike with an overdramatic groan and surveyed the room. Her eyes lit up and Lexa tracked her gaze. 

Her stomach sank. "Clarke, no," she cautioned, her pulse thudding loud in her ears.

"Teach me to punch again," she replied with a smirk. "Promise it won't be a repeat of last time."

Lexa forced a smile into her face. "Now, why do I not believe you?"

* * *

**AUDIO LOG - GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 704, 1943 hours**

I'm worried. About someone else, which is kind of a novel feeling right now. But, there was something… _off_ about Lexa in the gym earlier. I can't clear my head enough to try and figure out exactly what it was, but the fact that _something_ was wrong was pretty glaring. I need to work through it, kick it around a bit, and hopefully an answer will pop free.

She wasn't acting any differently towards me than she has been, really. A bit sharper, maybe. More bite tonally, at least. No observable difference with regards to body language. The hesitance around me, I understand. The hesitance around me and boxing? Doubly so. I'm not sure that her nose has been the same since I tried to cold-cock her.

She wrapped her hands, which, _God_ , that did not help a single fucking thing. That's normal for her practice sessions — both her wrapping her hands and me being a thirsty trash person — though usually she does her left hand and then her right, instead of the other way around.

Yes, I'm well aware of how fucking embarrassing it is that I know that. I kinda had a lot of time to think, and Lincoln had shot some media footage in the gym a couple times on the way out. Leave me alone.

[silence]

I didn't watch the videos Lincoln had on his drive until after I fried Pathfinder. Before that, I didn't even want to _think_ about them, but then Pathfinder died and took with it that last tenuous string tying me to my crew, to—

Well, yeah. That was the first time I'd seen their faces in over a year. And I noticed all these little things I'd forgotten. That curl to the corner of Lincoln's smile, the way Anya's eyebrows crinkled when she was doing her best to withhold a laugh.

How Lexa's eyes always seemed to light up when she saw me, even if nothing else outwardly changed. At least, that's what I found in it, whether or not that's what was actually there. A small, uncontrollable response from someone who was otherwise entirely in control. 

So I watched that footage over and over, again and again, searching for the slightest bit of human connection. Watched it enough that I had hours of it memorized. Enough that, if I closed my eyes and timed it right, I could insert my own commentary and pretend for a moment that the response that followed came from right beside me, that it was directed towards me. 

And on really bad days, I would hunker down and watch this one clip on repeat. Twenty-six minutes of Linc and Lexa answering questions from elementary school kids. Callie originally assigned the segment to Raven and I, which I guess maybe she didn't really think through? Because we gave it the good old college try, but between the awful jokes, vaguely suggestive quips, and veritable slew of F-bombs I don't think we ended up with a single usable clip.

So it got passed on to the Wholesome Twosome, and they hit that one out of the park. Right amount of humour, targeting their choice of words well enough to hold a kid's attention without dumbing it down too far. Lexa's always been in her element when it comes to educational outreach. And you could tell that— That they'd had a great time doing it, and it was just—

It was a really nice pick-me-up on days when my mental state maybe wasn't the greatest.

[extended silence]

She might have wrapped her right hand before her left to make it easier for me to follow along with my own wraps. Probably a fair assumption to make. Ugh, she's so thoughtful. She's the _worst_.

Well, obviously not, but—

[incoherent]

We wrapped up our hands, and then she—

Oh…

That's…

[extended silence]

Fuck.

She didn't land any punches.

I've never seen her pass up a chance to throw a punch at a heavy bag. I know the wall pad isn't quite the same thing, but… 

That's weird. That's really fucking weird. 

I'm missing something here. I've gotta be. Yeah, that maybe doesn't sound like all that big of a deal, but Lexa's a habitual person. Especially when it comes to boxing. 

She's been boxing since she was nine, at least. Maybe earlier. Twenty-something-year-old habits are pretty hard to break. Wrapping left hand before right, socking every punching bag you pass, that's muscle memory. That gets deeply ingrained by thousands of repetitions. It doesn't just _change_. 

Not without some sort of impetus.

[extended silence]

That thing she said the other day? About secrets that have stayed ship-side? 

I think I might be close to identifying one of those.

* * *

**AUDIO LOG - GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 704, 2002 hours**

So, I neglected to mention something earlier. Kinda was wishing I could erase it from my memory, to be honest. But guess I'm just going to immortalize it instead, because why the fuck not.

Lincoln was playing his music in the lab today. The, uh, you know. Yeah. So _that_ was fucking embarrassing. Jesus Christ. I'm blushing so hard just remembering, and in the moment? Fucking _awful_. 

I tried my best to focus on going through the lab notes these morons made in my absence, but even trying to figure out what plant the moniker "this spiky little asshole" referred to wasn't enough to distract me. 

Side note, Raven, I really hope you edited these before you sent them to Ground. They'll have even less of a clue about how to decipher your awful nicknames than I do.

Anyways, I was getting kinda itchy just sitting there thinking about the last time I'd heard that music, what I'd been doing, what I'd been thinking about, _who_ I'd been thinking of— 

Whatever. You get the idea. So I was sitting there all but crawling out of my skin and then that feeling started merging with that other itch I'm not allowed to scratch — well, _itch_ is putting it mildly; it's like I'm on fire and frozen solid all at once and I know what'll make it stop but I _can't_ — and I just craved relief from _one_ of the two, at the very least, and—

Suffice it to say that the absolute last thing I needed this afternoon was to see Lexa in her gym kit. End of the list. No bueno. 

I just— I fucking short-circuited right there. Like a fucking horny teenager. 

Thinking about it, that's probably the closest I've been to arousal in… months? Any drive along those lines vanished pretty quickly once the starvation really started setting in. So, like, cool that that's back, probably a good sign. No way I'm sharing that with Octavia, though, and it'd be super rad of my brain to _not_ actively objectify my friends, you know? Like, hello, I'm well aware that I'm on a ship full of very attractive people. No need to keep reminding me.

Speaking of very attractive people— Oh, goddammit. I'm such a fucking disaster. Can't even keep it in my pants for twenty seconds. Calm the fuck down, you idiot. You stupid fucking—

* * *

**AUDIO LOG - GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 704, 2026 hours**

Okay, okay, we're all good. This is fine. Nothing to see here.

Yeah, no, I can't lie about that, too. Half the conversations I've had since I got back aboard the ship have been nothing but lies, and same with my logs. But I can't keep doing this. I can't pretend anymore. 

I'm not fucking okay.

I mean, we've obviously already established that, yeah. But, like, on a deeper, more real level, I am really not okay. Really really. Bad. I'm bad, this is bad, everything is bad bad _bad_. 

[faint thud]

I'm tired. I just want to— I just wish I could fall asleep and— 

And I don't think I'd be all that sad if I didn't wake up again.

I know that's selfish. Believe me, I know. That's all I seem to understand how to be anymore. Selfish and wasting everyone's time and just being an all-around drain on resources and morale and—

I don't deserve any of this. I didn't _ask_ for any of this. When do I get to make my own choices, huh? When do I get to be in control of my own fucking life? I'm tired of floating from order to order, I'm tired of— I'm just _fucking tired_ , okay? I have _been_ tired. I just—

[ragged sobbing]

I just want to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you all had a good holiday if you celebrate and a good week if you don't.
> 
> shorter than this is intended to be, but I didn't have the emotional bandwidth to deal with working on what was meant to be the ending of this chapter, so here you go I guess. chapter count updated accordingly
> 
> stay safe and best wishes


	7. Mission Day 704

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gay panic

**MISSION DAY 704, CONT'D**

It took Lexa a long second to realize the vibration of her wrist comms wasn't, in fact, part of the exceedingly strange dream she'd found herself mired in. She levered herself up onto an elbow and stared at the device with bleary eyes.

Every scrap of fatigue evaporated in an instant.

She vaulted from her bunk, grabbed the sweater draped over the back of her chair and tugged it on as she stumbled out into the hallway. She padded down the hall, making futile attempts to tame her sleep-mussed hair, and let herself into Clarke's quarters.

Clarke didn't look up at her entrance, though her shoulders stiffened and her arms tightened around her legs where she sat hugging her knees to her chest. Lexa froze in the doorway, off-kilter, her brain still lagging a half-step behind. Then Clarke sniffed, and the noise shocked Lexa back into motion.

"How can I help?" she asked, straining to keep her voice free of the well of emotions clamoring to enter her tone.

Clarke shrugged weakly and sniffed again, pressing her head between her knees.

Lexa's chest burned, and she tried to quash the feeling with action, grabbing a water bottle and pouch of sludge from the desktop and placing them by the bed, rifling through compartments to pull out fresh pyjamas and a heavy blanket. Then she took a seat on the floor by the head of the bed, mirroring Clarke's position but facing away from her. 

"I'm glad you reached out to me," she said softly, running her fingernail along the seam in her pant leg. "We're all here for you." A choked sob came from behind her, and Lexa sighed, rested her chin on her knee. "I'm sorry you had to go through so much alone, but we're here now." She swallowed hard, her heart climbing into her throat. "I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere."

The sheets rustled, fell still. 

Lexa inhaled shakily then blew out a long, shuddering breath. "Have I ever told you about how I got into boxing?" she asked after a moment, digging a knuckle into the side of her knee.

Clarke made a noncommittal noise.

Lexa gazed into the middle distance, her hands stilling on her knees. "I was an army brat. We picked up and moved at least a dozen times while I was growing up. We lived in seven different states and three different countries. My dad always had the same pattern to fall back into wherever we ended up, but my mom and I? We had to learn new routines, make new friends, rebuild our lives from the ground up repeatedly.

"When I was eight, Dad got stationed in Cali. He had a buddy there who'd kept boxing competitively after he'd enlisted. His son Danny was a bit older than me, and his dad had already started teaching him. He and my dad were deployed to the Middle East that year." Lexa glanced around the room, breathed deeply against the weight of the emotions that bubbled up in her chest. 

"My mom and the guy's wife had gotten close and relied on each other pretty heavily through that deployment, so I ended up hanging out at their place a lot. I was an anxious kid, and I worried about my dad all the time. I was moping around their place one day and Danny wasn't having any of it, so he roped me into holding strike pads for him, and then talked me into putting on the gloves myself.

Lexa laughed under her breath, shaking her head. "I fell in love with it almost immediately. My mom balked a bit when I came to her, all of fifty pounds soaking wet with a bloody nose and a huge grin, and asked if I could take classes, but she signed me up soon enough, and it was transformative. When I was training, there wasn't room for me to focus on anything beyond the gym. Unlike every other aspect of my life, I knew exactly what I was supposed to be doing at any given moment. It gave me structure in a life that was devoid of it. Whenever we moved, I knew all I had to do was find a new gym and I'd be okay."

Clarke made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "If predictability is what you're looking for in the gym, dunno why you bother taking the time to try and teach me," she said, her voice muffled by her sheets.

Lexa tilted her head back, angled it to the side to catch a glimpse of Clarke. "I'm not in it for predictability. Boxing gave me purpose, and it gave me a safe haven. It's always been my port in a storm." She turned her body so she could prop an arm on the edge of the mattress, and then rested her chin on her forearm. "I don't talk to Danny anymore, because he grew up to be a misogynistic piece of work, but I'm still grateful to him for helping me find something to believe in. I take the time with you because I'd like to help you the same way, if you'll let me."

Clarke groaned as she rolled onto her stomach. Her red-rimmed eyes peered out at Lexa from the blanket wrapped shawl-like over her head. "By doing what, playing the role of misogynist asshole in my life? Not sure that's something I need, or that you're really suited to, but I guess you could give it a shot."

"Clarke," Lexa sighed, her mouth tightening. "Please." 

"Sorry, I know, deflecting." Clarke blew out a long breath and then laughed wetly. "You know I hate boxing, right?"

"No, I did not," Lexa replied, slow and careful, her brow furrowed. "If that's the case, why do you keep asking me to teach you?"

Clarke rolled her eyes and coughed something that sounded suspiciously like ' _idiot_ '. "Because _you_ like it, and I like seeing you in your element. And sometimes getting free reign to punch you is really hard to pass up."

Lexa arched an eyebrow, but otherwise refused to acknowledge the latter comment with a response. "It doesn't have to be boxing. It could be anything. It's just something that you want to do for you, not because someone else requests it."

"Kinda having a hard enough time figuring out who 'me' is right now without the added complication of trying to cater to her."

"You're Clarke Griffin," Lexa replied, a note of confusion rising in her voice. She rubbed at her temple, focused on the rise and fall of her chest against her knees. Anything to avoid focusing solely on the pinched crease that appeared between Clarke's eyebrows when she frowned.

"Duh," Clarke replied. "That's about the only thing I'm sure of."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"Would you give me a chance to finish?" Lexa asked, a bit harsher than she'd intended. She took a breath, carded a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry that I don't know what I'm meant to do. It feels like you're drowning, and I'm stretching out, trying to reach you, but falling short every time. I'm sorry for that. For not doing enough. It hurts to see you like this, and I wish there was something I could do to fix it."

"I don't need you to fix me, Lexa."

"I didn't mean you, I meant this whole situation," she explained, rapid-fire, cursing herself for the lack of clarity in her word selection. The conversational shorthand that developed over months isolated with a small group really had done a number on her communication skills. She shuddered to think of the absolute battery of PR classes she was going to have to sit through upon their return.

"I don't need you to try and fix that, either." Clarke reached out, flicked at Lexa's forehead until she lifted her gaze. Lexa swatted at her hand, but Clarke was persistent, almost forceful, as she moved her hand to cradle Lexa's jaw. "It is what it is. Stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault."

Lexa leaned her cheek into Clarke's palm, clammy with sweat, and tried her best to recall all the literature she'd plowed through over the past few days. A task made infinitely more difficult by the press of one of Clarke's fingertips to the sensitive patch of skin beneath her ear. She lifted her chin, meeting Clarke's gaze head-on, and wet her lips. "What can I do to help you feel safe, then?" she asked finally, her limbs aching for movement, for space, for some way to use action to solve the problems laid out before her.

Tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, Clarke pulled her hand back and hugged her arms around herself. "I don't know."

"Do you—" Lexa shook her head, her voice embarrassing in its faintness. She cleared her throat, watched Clarke's grip on herself tighten. "Can I lie down with you?" 

"What?"

"Can I lie down with you?" she repeated, feeling some measure of pride in the way her voice grew stronger, more sure. "Would that help?"

Clarke froze, her eyes widening slightly and that crease between her eyebrows resurfaced. Her gaze flicked over Lexa, and then her face softened and she patted the mattress at her side. "Couldn't hurt to try," she said, and there was a dimension, an openness, in her voice that helped to ease some of the anxiety from Lexa's body.

Despite that, Lexa moved unsteadily, most every fibre of her being screaming at her to maintain the distance between them. Instead, she perched on the very edge of the mattress, her hands twisting together in her lap. 

Clarke made an indignant noise. "Really. That's what you're going with."

"Obviously not." Lexa rolled her eyes and drew her legs up onto the bed, stretched out to full-length before turning to face Clarke.

She realized the error in her plans immediately, and her cheeks grew hot.

The Ark quarters were fitted out with twin beds as a space-saving measure. All well and good for solo sleeping (or for whatever Anya and Raven got up to, she guessed), but for friendly crewmates? The mattress wasn't anywhere near wide enough for them to lie side by side with any semblance of comfort.

Which meant that this was going to involve physical contact. Which was fine, of course. That could be platonic. That _was_ platonic. Of course it was.

She opened her eyes again to meet Clarke's, their faces scant inches apart. Clarke gave her a cheeky grin that didn't quite reach her eyes, and jerked her head, and Lexa nodded in agreement to the unvoiced question. They shifted around wordlessly, biting back hushed laughter at bumped heads and elbows in ribs. 

After what felt to Lexa like an eternity they settled back down. She'd somehow ended up on her back with an arm looped loosely around Clarke's waist. Clarke laid against her chest, clung to her, her touch leaving trails of embers across Lexa's skin. Their legs were tangled together, and one of Clarke's feet jittered anxiously against Lexa's as Clarke buried her face in Lexa's neck.

"Is this okay?" Lexa asked softly, hardly daring to breathe.

Clarke shivered against her, tear tracks shining on her cheeks, but she mumbled an absent-minded "yeah, yeah" all the same. She pressed the chilly tip of her nose to the underside of Lexa's jaw and inhaled deeply, hummed to herself. "M'good."

Lexa nodded, a brief bob of her head that did nothing to disguise the stiffness with which she held herself. "You'll tell me if that changes?"

"Course," Clarke slurred out. The disorientation in her voice grew as she curled tighter around Lexa and, in doing so, nosed the neck of Lexa's sweater aside and pressed her face to Lexa's bare clavicle. She mumbled something under her breath, and her lips ghosted across Lexa's skin with the words.

Lexa gulped, her fingers curling into the back of Clarke's shirt off their own accord. "What was that?"

Clarke tilted her head slightly, enough that Lexa could catch sight of the glazed look seeping into her gaze. "Can we go home now?" she asked, her voice almost fuzzy around the edges.

Lexa went still, blood pounding in her ears, the walls she'd built up inside herself crumbling at the words, at the concept. She raised a hand to cradle the back of Clarke's head, brushed her lips across the plane of Clarke's temple. "Of course," she whispered against warm skin. "We can go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year have the back half of last chapter and an updated chapter count because my schwack ass doesn't understand pacing. love you all and hope 2021 is kinder to you than 2020 was. thank you all for your feedback and support and everything I really appreciate it, especially right now.


	8. Mission Days 705-707

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shitshow astros

**TEXT LOG — GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 705, 0011 hours**

L took initiative, framed contact around HER desires, HER hopes. The diff b/w 'do you' and 'can I' betrays her motivation, and I'm here for it.

She's still here holding me, so can't do an audio log. After ages speaking p much every thought aloud 24/7, feels v strange to revert to text, but don't want to wake her/can't risk forgetting this. Feels like a monumental shift in our relationship. A confession of something we've both left unvoiced for years.

I don't want to forget.

* * *

**AUDIO LOG — GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 705, 0612 hours**

_Fuck_ , she still wakes up at an ungodly hour. I shouldn't be surprised by that, really, but for some reason I am? I think I keep expecting every single thing to be different, so when something proves unchanged it sets my teeth on edge. Every sliver of normalcy that remains in the aftermath of this trauma unsettles me. I'm left waiting for the catch.

But for the first time in a long time, I slept through a solid chunk of time undisturbed. No bad dreams to burst free from in a cold sweat, no shocks of pain to leave me crumpled over in agony. No nagging urges to go hunting for something to keep me level. Just her.

She was brave last night. She pushed herself far beyond the boundaries of her comfort zone, clear as day. I need to do the same, need to reciprocate, right? Gotta match her beat for beat. Yeah, gotta show her I'm ready, show her I'm here. Gotta do it, gotta do it, gotta do it.

Gotta… get more sleep first. It's way too early for any of this.

* * *

**MISSION DAY 706**

Raven tilted back in her chair and kicked her feet up on the desk beside Octavia's workstation. The position put a not-unpleasant stretch on her low back and she leaned forward to reach her fingertips towards her toes and deepen the stretch.

"Knock it off. You're going to disturb the bees." Octavia shoved at her calves, then seemed to think better of it, turning back to her work. Raven had just enough time to breathe a sigh of relief before Octavia jabbed her pen nib into the tender flesh of Raven's ankle.

"What the fuck," she complained, jerking seat and dropping her feet to the floor with a _thunk_. "Mean."

"We have a gym for a reason."

"It was just one stretch."

"I _have_ met you, Raven. It wouldn't take much for you to go from a single stretch to you and Peters replicating the Kama Sutra on my desktop."

"Ew, we wouldn't do that. What kind of person would want bees playing peeping Tom while they got it on? Don't be gross."

"That's really your only drawback?"

"Well, that and it'd be unfair to the bees. Buzzes Aldrin and Lightyear have done nothing to deserve having to bear witness to that kind of activity."

Octavia sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Stop trying to name the bees," she muttered, letting her head droop, the first movement in a string of posture changes that was sure to end with her banging her head against the desk in frustration. Raven's grin broadened at the chance to break her record for the least time to make Octavia crack.

"They're individuals, O. They deserve to be recognized as such." She reached past Octavia to tap at the glass enclosure. "See, there's Beeyoncé. Hot Buzz. B-127."

"Oh, are we talking bee names?" Raven jumped at the intrusion, then settled back down as Anya rested her chin on Raven's shoulder. "You used Obee Wan Kenobee yet?"

"Nice one, babe! Bee-Ra."

"A.P. Airy."

"Barry B. Benson."

"That's low-hanging fruit, Raven. You can do better. The Sultan of Sting."

"Our Lord and Saviour Beesus Christ."

Octavia groaned loudly as she sank even lower in her chair. "Do you two exist solely to make my life miserable?"

Raven traded a glance with Anya, winking at her before shooting Octavia a toothy grin. "Yeah, pretty much just for that purpose. We aim to misbe _hive_."

"Excuse me while I go throw myself out an airlock."

Anya clicked her tongue. "Come on, Blake, don't be a buzzkill."

"I hate you."

"Muhammad Ali," Anya added suddenly, sounding altogether too pleased with herself.

Her heart swelling with pride, Raven reached her hand out for a low-five that Anya reciprocated with gusto. "Yes! Pity you wasted that one on O, though. Lexa would've been all over it."

"Do I even want to know?" Octavia asked 

"'Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee'," Raven replied, feeling no small measure of joy at the way Octavia's face crumpled in disgust.

"You're both terrible and I hate you _so much_." Octavia flicked her pen against the edge of the bee enclosure and then sighed heavily. "To what do I owe the pleasure of an audience with both halves of the shitshow duo?"

"You said you'd stop calling us that," Raven whined.

"What I _said_ was that I'd stop calling you that when it stopped being an accurate description."

"That's fair." Anya hummed quietly as she ground the point of her chin into Raven's shoulder. "Well, I don't know what Raven's been up to, but I for one am here to talk about a certain other hot mess of a couple."

"Did you say ' _couple_ '?!" Raven bolted upright in her seat. The abrupt motion left Anya rubbing at her jaw, and Raven mouthed an apology before diving back into the pursuit of knowledge. "Did something happen?"

Even Octavia's expression grew (marginally) less put-upon. "Spit it out, Peters."

"Maybe?" Anya shrugged. "Lexa hasn't mentioned anything to me, but I went into the kitchen to grab lunch and they kind of… jumped apart? And then pretended like it was completely normal that they were standing as far away from each other as humanly possible."

Octavia pursed her lips. "Huh. That's weird; Clarke's only just stopped pretty much having a panic attack whenever I need to do an exam."

"Yeah, but she doesn't want to mack on _you_ , now, does she?" Raven replied with a grin.

Anya whacked her in the shoulder. "Cut it out. We said we were going to leave them to it."

"Need I remind you that you're the one who came running in here to spill the tea?"

"That's different."

" _How_?"

"Because I'm not a walking disaster," Anya replied, matter-of-fact.

Octavia cleared her throat, drawing the attention of the pair. "As always, your attempts at flirting with each other are unsettling and vaguely disturbing."

Raven screwed her face up. "You're one to talk, Miss 'Can I Touch Your Biceps If You Don't Let Me I May Cry'."

"I told you that in confidence!"

Raven smirked at her. "And I'm confident that you should be embarrassed by it."

"Children, please," Anya cut in, slinging an arm around both of their shoulders. "Enough. I only brought this to you because I'm pretty sure Lexa hasn't slept in her own quarters the past two nights. We may need to re-evaluate our gameplan if we want a straight answer to settle the bets. Thoughts?"

"Well, I don't see us getting a _straight_ answer," Raven drawled, her smile growing wider, "but…"

"Oh, please, no," Octavia muttered despondently, and her forehead became fast friends with the desktop.

* * *

**AUDIO LOG - GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 707, 1041 hours**

She's slept here three nights in a row now. We've worked our way through Tollbooth and moved on to The Hobbit, which is probably going to take three times as long to get through and— 

It seems like a promise, of sorts. A commitment to her continued presence. I know she's said over and over that she's here, I know she'll keep repeating it as long as she thinks I need to hear it, but it's easier to believe in practice. It's easier to believe when it's supported by her actions. 

Last night she ran her hand through my hair—

[strangled laugh]

Shit, sorry, I just… I don't know what it is… 

When O's trying to draw blood or poke and prod or the other thousand things she needs to do to my body, I can stand it most of the time. Up to a point. Then a switch is flipped and all of a sudden her touching me is awful. It's like my flesh has been flayed from my bones and I'm laid bare. Any contact has my nerve endings screaming bloody murder.

But Lexa? She's so in control of herself around me that it almost feels like she's an extension of my own body. She's being so careful to telegraph her movements, to check that I'm okay basically every time she takes a breath. And before now she's been mostly passive in contact, letting me take the lead and dictate everything but she ran her hand through my hair last night and I just about combusted right there.

She's so fucking gentle and—

It's just really fucking domestic. We were close before, but this is something beyond that. Straying into that Don't You Fucking Dare category of interaction, maybe.

I wish. Oh, do I fucking wish. I've been in love with her for so long I can't even remember when it started.

Okay, yeah, that's a lie.

It was when she _saw_ me, despite the walls I'd thrown up. We were on a two-week training session at Edwards in Cali, spending time on the MDV and MAV simulators and getting used to the rovers. She'd preemptively scheduled a team bonding session on the anniversary of my dad's death, and then came and dragged me out of the dirt — literally — when I didn't show. She took me to the gym instead of whatever bullshit activity she'd had planned for us and tried to teach me how to spar. 

And intentionally goaded me into punching her in the face. 

Then that night she drove me out into the desert and we sat and stargazed and just… talked. She told me about Syria and Costia, about knowing how it feels to watch someone you care about die. 

That was the first time we'd ever really gone any deeper than surface level. Before then I'd sorta pigeonholed her as 'Uptight GI Joe', which, while not entirely incorrect, really sells her short. She's pragmatic, sure, and when I first met her she certainly came off as cold and abrupt and, honestly, kind of an asshole. But she's empathetic, too, and intelligent, and a closet idealist.

I don't think it's possible to know her and not fall at least a little bit in love with her. When she talks to you, she makes you feel like you're the centre of the universe. Like you're the only thing that matters. Out in the desert staring up at the sky and baring our hearts to each other it was easy to fall in love with her, and I did. I fell hard, and I never stopped.

Every bit of me aches to speak up, to address this head-on, but I know her. I have to let her be the one to broach the subject, I think. Especially given how tentative she's been since I got back, how much work it's taken to get to this point. She needs to be the one to hold that last modicum of restraint, or I'm afraid she'll end up distancing herself again. 

Doesn't mean I can't prod her along. Gotta reciprocate, be open with my emotions physically if I can't voice them for fear of scaring her off. 

Come on, Clarke, you can do it. You've got this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please stay safe out there


	9. Mission Days 707-708

**MISSION DAY 707**

"Traitor! This is a betrayal of the highest order," Lexa hissed, shifting her glare from the sets of cards spread out in front of Anya to Anya's stupid dumb asshole smirk and back again. 

"Your own fault for leaving a completed set exposed," Anya replied with a shrug. "Losers gonna lose, I guess." Her gaze shifted past Lexa and she lifted her chin in greeting. "Hiya, O."

"Hey. Commander, could I speak with you?"

Lexa turned to face Octavia, resting her forearm on the back of her chair. "Of course. What's up?"

"Privately," Octavia added tersely, her eyes flicking towards Anya.

"Yeah, sure thing." Lexa glanced back down at her cards and sighed, tossing them on the table face-up. "Peters was going to win on her next turn anyways."

Anya preened a bit as she swept the cards together and riffle-shuffled them with ease, finishing with an ostentatious flourish. "You bet your ass I was."

"Oh, don't gloat. You got lucky with that Dealbreaker card" Lexa made a face at her as she rose from the table. "Lead on, Blake."

She followed Octavia through to the medbay, watching with a spark of interest at the way Octavia scanned the hall before shutting the door and locking it behind them. Leaning back against the countertop, Lexa folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. "Why the secrecy?"

"We need to talk about Griffin."

"When do we not," Lexa deadpanned, the corner of her mouth quirking up. 

"We need to talk about the two of you," Octavia clarified, and something indecipherable in her expression sent a shiver down Lexa's spine.

Lexa's smile slipped from her face. "I'm not sure what you mean," she said softly, her thoughts a maelstrom of panic that betrayed the lie. After all, her assertions to herself of pure amiability had been steadily weakening with every passing day. No need to continue lying to herself on that front. 

Octavia, on the other hand? Fair game. 

Lexa shifted her weight from one foot to the other, forcing herself to maintain eye contact as Octavia's eyes narrowed.

"Clarke's in a tenuous place in her recovery. She doesn't need the psychological stress of whatever is happening between the two of you on top of everything else going on." There was a storm brewing behind Octavia's eyes, and panic rose in Lexa's gut to meet it.

She hadn't let something slip, had she? Well, beyond the broad strokes that practically screamed out her feelings for anyone to hear. She couldn't forget about those.

So.

In retrospect, maybe this conversation had been a long time coming.

She clung to her composure like a life raft. "Again, I'm not sure what you're referring to. Your directives were to provide her with friendship and support. I'm simply acquiescing."

Octavia scrubbed a hand across her face and screwed her eyes shut. She inhaled deeply through her nose, exhaled slowly, the timing of the breathing pattern innately familiar to Lexa, ingrained across hours of psych seminars. After a moment she loosed a long-suffering sigh. "I asked you to support her, yes. Not dive headfirst into borderline codependency."

That wasn't what her actions were at all… Were they? Bile rose in Lexa's throat at the mere thought of her attempts at aid doing more harm than good. "It's not—"

"You've slept in her quarters almost every night this week."

"That's not exactly a unique situation aboard this ship," Lexa said sharply. She prayed that Octavia wouldn't bother examining the deeper implications of _that_ equivalency. "But I don't see you taking anyone else to task for it. Has it been negatively affecting her rest?"

Octavia muttered something distinctly uncomplimentary under her breath. After a moment, she shook her head. "The opposite."

"Then I don't see the problem."

"No?" Octavia rolled her eyes. "Real big surprise there. Her sleep is improving. _Yours_ , on the other hand?" She sighed. "You've always had something of a saviour complex, Lexa. But this? Clarke's addiction, her withdrawal? They're medical problems. You can't solve them by spending eighteen hours a day glued to her side, especially if that negatively impacts your own health.

"If you keep pulling two hours a night, you're going to burn yourself out sooner rather than later. And when you do, you're not going to be able to maintain the level of support you've let Clarke become accustomed to. Odds are, that'll send her into a tailspin, and next thing you know we're back at square one. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

Lexa pushed herself upright, her blood boiling, her mouth curling into a sneer. "You, of all people, have no right—"

"I'm her doctor, Commander."

"And I'm her—" Lexa's mind blanked in panic. Her mouth moved wordlessly a couple times before she shook her head. "I'm her friend," she finished lamely with a half-hearted shrug.

Octavia gave a sardonic laugh. "Oh, is that what we're calling it now?"

A hot spike of anger shot through Lexa. Her instincts towards fight had proven unstoppable, quickly winning the war with flight that had been brewing in the margins of her conscious thoughts. She matched Octavia's glare with an equally steely gaze, adrenaline thrilling in her veins.

"Just because you've been violating the Code of Conduct since before we first made it to Mars doesn't mean that I'm out here searching for an opportunity to do the same. Everything I'm doing for Griffin I would do just as quickly for every single member of this crew." Lexa's chest heaved as she sucked in deep breaths. She tried in vain to reel herself in, but the words kept coming, growing in volume as momentum took hold. "My actions aren't a bias or proof of whatever you're trying to imply exists between Griffin and me. And even if they were, I think I've proven time and time again that I'm more than capable of separating feelings from duty."

"Really," Octavia scoffed, directing a pointed look towards her hand.

Lexa flexed her fingers briefly before stuffing her hand into her pocket. "That incident notwithstanding. Nothing like that will happen again."

"It can't. You need to re-evaluate your actions, Lexa. She needs more than so-called 'friendship' to improve her recovery chances. She needs treatment and consistency and to not be babied or coddled or however the fuck you want to define your idea of support."

"That's _enough_ , Blake," Lexa snapped, her cheeks burning. "I have stepped up to be your punching bag for _months_. You've clearly needed to make someone the enemy, and I'd much rather you deal with that by targeting me than targeting anyone else aboard, or getting into it with Ground. But even I can only take so much.

"I need you on my team." Lexa sighed heavily, fatigue dripping from her every word. "I cannot be fighting you every single step of the way, not if we're going to make it home safely. _Especially_ with an EVA imminent. The repair run we have planned is rife with potential problems that could easily put our return to Earth in jeopardy. If you're not on the same page as me about it, then I can't in good conscience allow you to go out there and poke around at things that could get us all killed. Understood?"

Octavia's face was stony, but she still ceded the point with a nod.

"Good. Now, from where I'm standing, it seems as though I have a more coherent rehabilitation plan for Griffin than you do, given the amount of mixed messages you've been putting out." Lexa raised her chin, stared down her nose at Octavia, almost hoping that she would argue the point. Now that Lexa had allowed herself some freedom, she was itching to let loose everything she'd ever bit her tongue about with regards to Octavia. "I'll give your input some thought. If you ever come to a decision about what it is that you _actually_ need me to do here, you know where to find me." She made a face. "In the kitchen getting stomped in a game of Monopoly Deal, per usual."

* * *

**MISSION DAY 708**

Lexa sat sidelong on her bed, legs stretched out in front of her and her head resting on Anya's shoulder. She fiddled absently with her wrist comm as she shot a glance towards the door. "Are we expecting anyone else, or shall we get started?"

"Octavia is still working on preparations for tomorrow's EVA," Lincoln replied from where he lounged in Lexa's desk chair.

On Anya's other side, Raven leaned forward to catch Lexa's gaze. "You know how she is; has to quintuple-check everything that's already been quadruple-checked."

"I did invite Clarke," Anya added, "but I'm not sure whether she's planning on making an appearance. Seemed like it was going to be dependent on the company." She dug an elbow into Lexa's side, then winked when Lexa glared at her. "Give her a couple more minutes, maybe?"

Lexa nodded, eyes flicking compulsively towards the door again. "Sounds like a plan. I take it everyone else is sufficiently prepared for the EVA?"

"Yes, _mom_ ," Raven groaned, followed by a dull thud Lexa assumed had to be her skull against the bulkhead. "I finished my homework, pretty please can I watch the movie."

Lexa was saved from having to unpack all of _that_ by the door sliding open. Everyone's gaze shot to the entry, and when Clarke stepped inside her eyes went wide at the attention.

Then she grinned a cocky little grin. 

Lexa readied an aggrieved snort, all too familiar with the signs of impending doom in the form of god awful jokes.

Clarke never failed to deliver. "I'm sure you're all wondering why I've gathered you here today."

"Well, I for one came to watch a movie, not stare at your scrawny ass," Raven chirped, tossing an M&M at her.

"Could we _please_ not throw food in my room? Oh, Clarke, no, don't—"

"Aaaand she ate it. You really went full feral planet-side, huh, Griff?"

Clarke made a face at Raven. "You're one to talk; you seriously requisitioned almond M&Ms on the resupply shuttle?"

"That was _you_?" Anya gasped. "You dick!"

"Clarke does make a good point, Raven," Lincoln added. "Those are _disgusting_."

"I have to agree," Lexa chipped in, a smile playing around her mouth. 

"Can we give _Pick on Raven Day_ a rest and, I don't know, watch the fucking movie?" Raven huffed dramatically and slumped down on the bed again. "Get a move on, Clarkey, chop chop."

The others subsided into gentle ribbing as Clarke picked her way across the room. Lexa, however, couldn't tear her eyes away as Clarke paused at the desk and reached out to trace a finger across the haworthia's leaves.

She looked up and met Lexa's gaze with a blinding smile. "Looking good, _commandant_. The plant. I mean the plant. The plant's looking good."

Lexa nodded weakly, her stomach in knots as a grumble that sounded suspiciously like Octavia echoed through her head. "Thanks," she replied shortly, her voice thick.

"Riveting conversation as always," Raven snarked, "but let's fucking _go_ , bud."

Clarke ignored her, gestured towards the open space between Lexa and the wall with a raised eyebrow. Lexa nodded stiffly and shifted closer to Anya to give her a buffer zone. Letting Clarke dictate contact should be enough to appease Octavia. All she had to do was avoid reaching out. She could trust herself to keep her hands to herself. Definitely.

* * *

The demilitarized buffer between them lasted fifteen minutes at most. Lexa kept her gaze on the screen, but her attention was fixed on the movement in her periphery as Clarke edged along the mattress and tentatively reached out a hand. The sides of their hands brushed against each other, and then Clarke hooked their pinkies together.

Lexa swallowed thickly, but somehow managed to stop her gaze from drifting away from the movie. If she didn't acknowledge it then she couldn't be blamed for it, right? 

Lexa rolled her eyes and sighed lightly. There wasn't any harm in entertaining this contact, no matter _what_ Blake claimed. After a moment's consideration, she flipped her hand over.

Instead of weaving their fingers together, Clarke tugged Lexa's hand into her lap.

Lexa froze, too scared to move for fear of spooking Clarke, and held her breath as Clarke's fingers danced across her skin. 

Clarke traced the edges of Lexa's fingers with wholehearted attention, circled around her knuckles and lingered on swollen joints and faded scars. Lexa had long since forgotten the movie in favour of trying _not_ to concentrate on the lightning bolts that arose under her skin at the contact.

Lexa had to bite back a whimper when Clarke turned her hand over and dragged the tip of her index finger along the creases of Lexa's palm. Clarke lifted her head and stuck her tongue out, and Lexa felt the tips of her ears turn pink.

Clarke pushed the cuff of Lexa's sweater up her arm, ran gentle fingers across the newly exposed skin. She caressed the inside of Lexa's wrist, following the faint blue of her veins. 

Lexa swore under her breath, then fended off an inquisitive look from Anya before screwing her eyes shut and exhaling shakily.

She reopened her eyes at a quick squeeze of her fingers, and Clarke motioned towards her other hand. 

Lexa hesitated, curled her fingers and pressed the resultant fist under her thigh.

Clarke's expression sprung straight to confusion, and she gestured again, more vehement in the motion. 

Lexa relented with a sigh and held her hand out, palm up. Clarke repeated her motions, fingers whispering across Lexa's skin. Then, far quicker than Lexa would have liked, Clarke attempted to turn her hand over. 

Lexa offered a token resistance, but quickly buckled as she considered the inevitability of discovery.

Clarke's breath caught in her throat, but her hands were steady and gentle as she followed the edges of the scar. Then she moved again, brushed across the scarred skin with renewed purpose, her fingertips finding the calloused metacarpal with ease.

"What the fuck is this?"

Lexa stiffened, tried to tug her hand out of Clarke's grasp, but Clarke held tight. "Can we not do this now?" she pleaded under her breath, even as she accepted that this was, in fact, going to happen now.

("Linc, how about that big twist, huh? Completely unexpected," Anya said, her voice overly loud. Lexa could have kissed her.)

"So that's what happened to the hydromorphone," Clarke continued, pressing the pads of her fingertips to the margins of the scarred skin. "I'd figured Raven had done something stupid."

("Rude," Raven complained, only to be shushed swiftly and violently by Anya. 

"Yes, Anya, I am rather overwhelmed trying to understand the ramifications of such a move in that cinematic universe. Perhaps a fresh cup of coffee would help jumpstart my analysis.")

"Wouldn't have bet on _you_ being the one to play complete moron."

("That sounds like a fantastic idea. Raven?"

"Ah, yes, I too would like to partake in a warm beverage while existing literally anywhere other than this room.")

Lexa's mind went white with panic.

She tore her hand away and fled, rocketed from the bed and strode across the room. She leaned her forehead into the wall and inhaled, trying to calm the frantic beating of her heart.

"Were you ever gonna tell me?" Clarke's voice sounded on the verge of breaking. "Or was that supposed to stay a secret too?"

"Too?"

"Disobeying orders? Going rogue?"

" _Clarke_ —"

"What, did all of you expect me to be so self-centred that I'd never find any of this out? Or do you think I'm not strong enough to handle the truth? I'm not going to fucking fall apart if someone tells me bad shit happened. Anything you could throw at me would pale in comparison to the _mountains_ of bad shit I've been through."

"I know. You're not the reason I kept those things to myself."

"Bullshit."

"Not everything is about you, Clarke."

"I'm well aware. But everything is about the crew, isn't it it? Where was all that garbage about keeping the crew safe when you were off doing that to yourself?"

"Why do you immediately jump to the assumption that I did this to myself?"

"I've never known you to be careless, Lexa, but that? That _screams_ of carelessness. Did you do that before or after you found out I was alive?" Clarke's voice was ice cold, clinical. Lexa shivered at the way it crawled up her spine.

"After." She turned, pressing her back to the wall and tipping her head back, gaze fixed on the ceiling. "Before we heard from Gustus, leaving you behind was a tragic accident. But after? When I'd learned there were so many things I could have done? When I knew you were out there inching towards starvation with no hope of resupply? Then it became a personal failure, and—" She shrugged her shoulder, raised her hand and then let it fall back to her side. "Like I said, I've been selfish."

Clarke's face flickered through a wide array of emotions, before settling on sorrow. "No. No, you're confusing being selfish with being human. You had a momentary lapse in judgment, that's all."

"I cannot _afford_ to have a momentary lapse. I am not _allowed_ to have a momentary lapse. My reaction to that news was an unacceptable display of weakness that jeopardized not only the crew and the mission, but — irony of ironies — also _further_ jeopardized you. I cannot forgive myself for that."

"That's not weakness—"

"I acted like a petulant child and destroyed my hand because I couldn't cope with the fact I'd left someone I loved to die on Mars. That's a pretty clear weakness, Griffin."

"Don't—" Clarke started, automatic, and then she froze abruptly, clipping the word, her eyes shooting wide. 

A chill washed over Lexa, shocked her like she'd been dumped into ice water.

"Did you just—" "I didn't mean—" they clamoured over top of one another.

Lexa pursed her lips, raised her chin towards Clarke. "Go ahead."

Clarke's eyes stayed glued to her face, and Lexa could feel a blush sweeping towards her hairline. Clarke arched her eyebrows, a glint in her gaze that Lexa didn't especially like the look of, a spark of— Was that anger, or interest? The former, definitely the former, an interpretation wholly supported by the sharp edge of steel in Clarke's voice. "Did I hear you correctly?"

Lexa glanced away with a shrug, long past caring about anything but whether she could melt into the floor through sheer force of will. Surely her face was approaching a temperature hot enough to enable that.

"Because it sounded to me like you said that you love me."

Her hands had found their way behind her back at some point, unbeknownst to her. She wrested one free and reached up to rub at the knot of tension forming at the nape of her neck. "I love our crew, Griffin."

"Don't play dumb, _Callaghan_. It doesn't suit you."

Her feet carried her forward of their own accord as she floundered for any possible explanation that wouldn't leave her chest torn open. "The five of you feel more like family to me than my blood relatives do. I love every single member of this crew."

"You know that's not what I meant, Lexa." Clarke shifted forward to the edge of the bed, tilted her head up. She'd always been excellent at catching the scent of blood in the water. "I'm not talking about platonic love when I ask you—" Her voice trembled. She took a deep breath, released it slowly, but when she finally carried on her words were crisp, measured. "Do you love me?"

Lexa's knees went weak, her mouth dry. She averted her gaze, bit her lower lip in a monumental failure of an attempt to keep it from trembling. "I—" She rubbed at the side of her neck, her pulse screaming in her throat. "Clarke—"

"It's not a difficult question, Lexa." Clarke fisted her hand in the front of Lexa's shirt and tugged her forward. "Do you love me?"

Lexa swayed with her, squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted so badly to lie, to divert, to obfuscate, but she didn't think she could keep this a secret from Clarke any longer. Not when her gaze was so soft and open and searching. "Yes," she breathed, the word carving a hollow in her chest as it fell from her lips.

"Then stop treating me like I'm made of glass," Clarke husked. She pulled on Lexa's shirt again and Lexa was helpless to do anything but follow, coming to rest in the bracket of Clarke's outstretched legs. "You didn't break me. You're not going to break me."

Lexa reached up, planted a hand against the ceiling panel, carefully keeping space between their bodies. "Blake said that I needed to—"

"I couldn't care less what Blake said. Screw Blake— Or, you know, screw _me_ —" 

Lexa's brain screeched to a halt, her heartbeat reaching deafening levels as she stared blankly at Clarke. She hadn't heard that correctly, had she? There was no way Clarke had said that, not in a million years.

For her part, Clarke looked somewhat green around the gills, her eyes comically wide. "Sorry, I didn't mean— Well, I _did_ mean that, but even I know that's too much too fast, so, sorry about that." Clarke swallowed hard. "Can you say something, please?

Lexa exhaled slowly. "I don't want us to do something we'll regret, okay? I don't want us to do something before we're ready—"

"Lex, babe, I'm ready." Clarke lifted her free hand, curled her fingers in the neck of Lexa's sweater, tugged gently. "I have _been_ ready for _years_ —"

Lexa forced the words out past the catch on her throat. "I'm not."

Clarke tore her hands away, her face crumpling in a split second. "Lexa?" Her voice wavered, came out small and fragile.

Lexa stepped back from the bed, straightened herself, withdrew into a shell of aloofness. She linked her hands behind her back, years of military training snapping back into place as she turned and paced across the room. When she came to a standstill, her eyes lit on the group photo of the crew she had pinned up beside her door, and all of a sudden it hurt to breathe.

"Lexa, you're scaring me."

Lexa reached a hand out towards the photo, fingers hovering close until she raised her chin, pulled herself away, turned on her heel to face Clarke.

Clarke's eyes were downcast, locked on her lap as she picked at the cuffs of her sweater. Not Clarke's, Lexa realised with shock, but hers. Stained now, and torn, the hem charred, sitting baggy on Clarke, but the stripes on the upper arms making it still recognizably _hers_.

"I need—" She swallowed hard around the lump in her throat, ran a hand through her hair. Part of her absently wondered why this was the first time she'd noticed the sweater. "I need you to be patient with me. Please." Those were very much not the right words, but no matter how hard she grasped she couldn't find anything else to say. 

Clarke nodded stiffly, refusing to look up. "Don't worry, I get it," she mumbled, poking her thumb through a hole in the fabric. "'s fine. 'm tired." She yawned unconvincingly, flopping onto her side and rolling to face the wall.

"Clarke—"

"Gonna sleep." 

Lexa bounced on her toes, glancing towards the door and back. "This is my bunk—"

Clarke groaned. "Don't care. Get the lights on your way out, would you?"

Lexa strove to grasp at words she just couldn't seem to wrangle together. In the back of her head, she was still preoccupied with trying to figure out what the sweater _meant_. 

After a long moment, she sighed and stepped forward, collected the scattered bedding left behind in the wake of the others' swift departure, slipped the blanket free where it was pinned beneath Clarke's feet and pulled it up to cover her. She smoothed the fabric down over Clarke's shoulder, acid burning in her throat when Clarke flinched away from her touch.

She crossed the room in brisk measured steps, rested her finger on the switch for a long moment before flipping the overheads off. She paused again with her hand on the door handle, glanced back towards the bunk. "Goodnight, Clarke," she murmured, and slipped out into the hall without waiting for a response. Not that she expected one.

Her stomach dropped out when the door clicked shut behind her, and she staggered a step, pressed her hand to the wall for balance. She folded over at the waist, inhaled sharply, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She grasped blindly at the wall, hand sliding as her legs gave out, and she slumped down, wedged her head between her knees, each gasping breath burning in her lungs.

Lexa slapped her hand over her mouth, smothering a strangled sob that died in her throat, and drove her thumb hard into the curve of her cheekbone. The pressure, sharp and biting, settled the panic roiling in her gut, calmed her enough that she could find the wall again, could shift until she had her back pressed tight against it.

That still wasn't enough to smother the feeling of the world disappearing from beneath her, leaving a space through which her heart needed no urging to plummet into freefall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for your feedback and support. please know I appreciate the heck out of each and every one of you so much. apologies for my inability to show that appreciation in any way other than low-key being a monster. love ya


	10. Chapter 10

**AUDIO LOG - GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 709, 0243 hours**

Cried myself to sleep like a stupid fucking—

So _stupid_. Sososososo _soso_ —

Woke up in the middle of a panic attack and—

Every stupid piece of bedding smelled like her and I'm wearing her stupid hoodie and I'm just so _stupid_.

I don't know why I did that. Why the fuck did I _do_ that? Ruined it, I ruined it, and now any chance of that ever actually happening is destroyed and all because I couldn't control myself, couldn't contain the voice in my head screaming out that I want and want and _want_.

That I want to be heard. Seen. Understood.

That I want to be wanted in return.

I just couldn't stop myself from letting my weakness shine through. 

My willpower gets chipped away at all day by the throb and the hurt and the ache in every single inch of my body. I spend every spare bit of energy on not losing it over the urge to tear the ship apart trying to figure out where O's stashed the meds, and then when I need something to hold onto the most there's nothing left. 

And now I've destroyed the relationship that means the most to me. So that's real fucking great. Good going, Griffin. Extra points for finding creative new ways to ruin your life.

Fuck, I just— I thought we were on the same page, but I guess maybe we were in different books? Where hers was an instruction manual on safe space travel and mine was a fucking narcissist's wet dream. 

And now that I put some actual thought into it, it's just so obvious where I went wrong. She's been telling me all along that she doesn't want me. Why didn't I _listen_?

I knew I needed to stop talking, needed to put distance between us in that moment, but the words just kept coming. It was like I'd crossed an event horizon. Moving towards a confession of my feelings was as inevitable as the passage of time.

And fucking it up because I'm a stupid asshole was just as inevitable.

* * *

**AUDIO LOG - GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 709, 0407 hours**

I can barely keep myself together anymore, and I hate that lack of control so fucking much. At least on Mars I could—

No, Clarke, don't you start on that bullshit. This is fine, this is good, this is a billion times better than slowly starving to death alone on Mars. You fucking moron. 

_Fuck_.

It really is a fucking miracle I survived, given how easily I find myself falling prey to a sort of learned helplessness now. I don't think I used to be like this. Or, I don't know, maybe I was. I'm terrified of looking back at old recordings in case I'm wrong. 

Or, a more terrifying thought, in case I'm _right_.

Makes me think of something Lexa told me once. 

Though, to be fair, what _doesn't_ make me think about her? 

Fuck. Whatever. That stupid rock fact that somehow wedged itself into my brain and managed to find a home there.

The summit of Mount Everest is made up of sedimentary rocks, formed at the bottom of an ocean millions of years ago. They're the last remnants of a sea that no longer exists. 

And me, what did I leave in my wake on Mars? What pieces are left behind of the person I used to be?

* * *

**MISSION DAY 709**

Lexa yawned into the crook of her elbow and then rubbed sleep from the corners of her eyes as she strode towards the airlock. Her steps were heavy and dragging, but when she poked her head through the door she slathered on an air of positivity so cloying as to be overwhelming. "Hey, Blake, good morning to you. All prepped and ready to get outside, yeah? How're you feeling?"

"Fantastic," Octavia drawled as she shimmied into the bottom half of her EVA suit, hopping in place a couple times to force the waistband over her hips. She shrugged the suspenders up onto her shoulders, releasing them with a _snap_ , and then lifted the top half of the suit from its hooks.

Lexa blew out a frustrated breath. "I was hoping for something a little more detailed than that."

Octavia glanced towards her, her mouth drawn into a thin line. She arched an eyebrow. "You really trying to do this now, Callaghan?"

Lexa scrubbed a hand across her face, her brows furrowing as she tried her best to understand the vitriol in Octavia's tone. "Do what?" she asked after a long moment of silence, having achieved no blinding realization in the meantime. What she wouldn't give for a nap.

Octavia rolled her eyes and turned her attention back down to the spacesuit. "I'm not going to have this conversation when you slept for forty minutes last night and I'm about to go do a ten hour spacewalk. You can apologize to me later, after a full night's sleep, and I'll accept it then. Right now, I'm going to go out there and crush those repairs, because, contrary to what is apparently popular belief, I am _outstanding_ at my job." She punctuated her words with a sharp twist of her helmet, opening the seal so she could separate it from the suit torso.

Lexa crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the door frame with a heavy sigh. "I was actually coming to make sure we were still on the same page about the order in which you're tackling the systems."

Octavia's hands tightened against another one of the seals, gripped it hard enough to cut off blood flow and turn her knuckles white. "Yes, commander, I _am_ still on board with the plan we've been laying out in exacting detail for the better part of a week. Thank you for checking in on that. _Much_ appreciated, as always." She pulled the suit over her head, effectively ending any hope of further conversation.

Lexa stood slack-jawed and reeling, the jammed up cogs of her brain doing their utmost to chug away and make some semblance of sense out of the acid that had seeped into Octavia's voice. Finally she sighed, shrugged to herself, and left Octavia to her own devices. Maybe she didn't have time for a nap, but a coffee? That could solve pretty much anything.

* * *

Lincoln ran a hand across his scalp as he made his way towards the gym. It was near time for another clean shave, he figured, given the prickle of hair against his palm. That would have to wait until another day, perhaps. He didn't expect that there would be anyone on board he could trust with a razor that night.

He rounded the doorway into the gym while pulling his sweater over his head, so the first indication he wasn't alone was the quiet whirr of the exercise bike's flywheel. He quickly tugged the shirt off to find Clarke perched on the bike, head down and shirt already damp with sweat.

Lincoln laid his gear out around the treadmill, taking pains to make as much noise as he could. When that plan failed, he grabbed his water bottle, took a long swig, and then coughed loudly into his elbow.

Clarke shot upright, her eyes comically wide as she grabbed at her chest. "Fuck," she gasped out as she tugged her headphones from her ears. "Give me a heart attack, why don't you. Jesus." Her legs still pumping away, she let the tension leach from her upper body. "So you drew the short straw, huh?"

Lincoln rubbed at the back of his neck and shrugged. "Do you not want company? I've no tasks for the EVA and I'd like to remain distracted during it, but I can go if you wish."

Clarke exhaled heavily. "No, it's fine." She shoved her headphones back on and leaned forward again, increasing her pedaling cadence. Lincoln spared her one last contemplative glance before stepping up onto the treadmill.

He pulled up his training plan and quickly found himself wearing a broad grin. Octavia had had the foresight to assign him a sprint interval workout. There was nothing like pushing himself to physical limits to help distract from the anxiety that tended to boil up during her EVAs. He had absolute faith in her abilities, of course, but, if nothing else, this mission had given them all a crash course in the dangers of trusting the environment not to be actively hostile.

Lincoln gritted his teeth and booted up the treadmill, stepping into the belt as it came up to speed. One positive thing he'd discovered rather quickly after departing Mars the first time was just how difficult it was to focus on anxieties when lactic acid was burning in his thighs.

Thirty seconds later, his thoughts somewhat more settled and his breathing far more erratic, Lincoln hopped off the treadmill belt and grabbed his comms device.

"What are you working on?"

He only just managed to keep his surprise at the conversational attempt off his face. "Morning mood survey," he replied between gasps, gaze flicking towards Clarke as he tapped away at the keyboard.

"Ugh, I should probably do mine, too." There was something not quite right in the tenor of her voice as she unlocked her comm and swiped through it. Then she paused, her fingers hovering over the screen. "Have you ever actually stopped to think about how many surveys you've done since we left Earth?"

"I've never given it much consideration, no." Lincoln stepped back onto the treadmill belt, the thud of his shoes precluding further discussion for the moment as he focused on putting one foot in front of the other. When he stepped back off a half minute later, his chest heaving, he glanced over at her. "Have you done the math?"

"It's likely somewhere around eight thousand," Clarke replied, staring past him out the porthole. Distance, Lincoln realized. That's what didn't feel quite right. Clarke's words had an air to them as though she didn't even realize she was speaking out loud. "Between nutrition, hydration, exercise, mood, sleep, and bowel movement surveys we do at least ten a day. Then on top of that we've got our weeklies and monthlies and the one-offs. Exposure to plant life, time spent in zero g, screen time…" She trailed off with a shake of her head. "It's a lot. That's what I mean, I guess." She shrugged, glanced at her watch and picked up the pace of her pedaling again.

Lincoln nodded wordlessly and glanced down at his comm. On the ship, their surveys had become an afterthought, but on Mars? They'd probably been the only structure Clarke had had to her day. 

He stepped back on the treadmill. Time to do his level best to outrun that train of thought.

* * *

**AUDIO LOG - GRIFFIN, C. MISSION DAY 709, 1354 hours**

It was really fucking difficult not to break into hysterical laughter during that workout with Linc. 

The thing is, the mood surveys have a couple different parts to them. Mental, environmental, and so on. The last section is 'Interpersonal Interactions'. 'Who did you last interact with?', 'What was the outcome of that interaction?', 'How did that interaction make you feel?', those kinds of questions. 

I was still doing those surveys when I was planet-side. Can't give up the grind, you know how it is. Or the chance at some really novel research. Anyway, you can probably imagine how my answers played out from Sol 7 through to getting Pathfinder working again, and then from killing Pathfinder until I was picked up.

Hot tip, quite a lot of swearing.

Anyways, Lincoln's chilling there running through his surveys like it's a normal everyday thing, because for him it _is_ , but it was also the first time I'd seen someone else do theirs since I got back. And I'm realizing that his answers to the interaction section are going to be about _me_ and it just hit me all over again.

I'm _here_. I'm _real_. 

I still don't quite believe it half the time. At points I've had to pinch myself just to prove I'm not dreaming. Those nights Lexa spent in my bed, the way she'd brush her hand over my hair when she left in the morning. Every second of that verged on unreal. The warmth of her body had me jolting awake a couple of times worried I was cuddling up to the RTG. 

Not that that ever happened, of course.

Obviously.

[nervous laughter]

It's just, maybe a girl gets to the point where she hasn't been touched or held or had any sort of human connection in months. Maybe she's a little bit desperate. So if she plays big spoon to a big ol' box of plutonium to help herself through it, well, maybe that's just her prerogative.

Right, where were we? Oh, yeah. The fear I'm living in a dream. Yeah. Well, on a somewhat positive note, I don't think I'm going to have that problem much anymore. Because not even my worst nightmares would've cooked up a fuck-up of quite this scale.

And, like, that bar's already pretty high, so…

Yeah, still not feeling super great about this one, folks. Go fuckin' figure.

* * *

"Airlock 1 repressurized," Octavia said over the comms, her voice monotone. The corresponding light on the console in front of Lexa turned green. "EVA successful."

"Ten-four. Well done, Blake. Get some rest. You deserve it." The comments didn't receive a response, and when Lexa lifted her gaze from the instrument panel she found Anya staring at her appraisingly. "What?"

"I didn't say a word," Anya replied, with a smile like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

"Mmhmm." Lexa rolled her eyes and spun her chair around to face Raven. "Reyes, thanks for the great work. If you're all wrapped up, you may be relieved. Go have dinner."

"Aye aye, cap'n." Raven gave her a mocking salute and levered herself from her seat. She shook her arms out and rolled her head around before moving towards the door. "Coming, Ahn?"

Anya clicked her tongue. "I'll be down in a bit. Callaghan and I have some things to finish up first." 

Raven's eyebrows quirked upwards, but she didn't press the issue. "Later, then."

The door slid shut behind Raven, and Lexa swiveled around to stare at Anya in confusion "What did you—"

"Feel like telling me why you and Blake just subjected us to the single most uncomfortable EVA in NASA history?"

Lexa shrunk back in her seat, her cheeks burning. She ground the heels of her palms into her eyes and took a deep breath. "I'd really rather not, if it's all the same to you."

"Fair enough." Footsteps crossed the deck, and then a touch ghosted across Lexa's shoulder. "You doing okay, bud?"

"I, uh—" Lexa raised her head, shrugged half-heartedly as Anya boosted herself up onto the console in front of her. "I'm fine."

"Oh, yeah, of course. Totally believe that." She knocked a foot against Lexa's knee. "Do you wanna sit here and be fine together for a while?"

Lexa sniffled quietly and wiped her nose on the back of her hand before nodding. "Please."

"Cool." Anya drew her legs up beneath her and settled back against the wall. "We can do that."

Lexa kept her head bowed as she picked idly at a loose thread in the seam of her pants. Anya had been correct in her assessment of the EVA. Not that she'd ever say the words, of course, for fear of Anya's head growing too big for her helmet. 

The mission objectives had been successfully completed in the time allotted, but that was where the positives began and ended. Even early on in training, when they'd all still been learning each other's idiosyncrasies, they'd never allowed their emotions to enter into the equation. But now? Where she and Octavia should have been working in unison, every step of the plan had turned into a battle instead.

The mission objectives had been achieved, sure, but Lexa couldn't help but feel as though she'd failed. 

That was becoming far too familiar a sensation of late.

She pinched the webbing of her thumb, massaged away some of the tension that had settled there after a long day of typing. Anya's eyes tracked the movement, then darted away when Lexa met her gaze. Silence blanketed them, heavy and cloying. 

Finally, Lexa rolled her eyes and waved a hand towards Anya. "Alright, go ahead, give me whatever scathing comment it is you're desperate to let out."

Anya flashed her a wry smile. "Well, I _did_ want to address how awkward it was having to wait for you to finish up your crying jag in the hallway before any of us could go to bed last night, but now this whole thing with Octavia has piqued my interest."

"I'm not going to talk about Blake with you."

"How about some advice on your whole Griffin drama, then?"

"The last time I took your advice, I got stuck in two days' worth of meetings with Command regarding disciplinary issues in the crew, so forgive me if I pass on that as well."

"Valid, but this might actually be beneficial to you."

"I'm fairly certain that's _exactly_ what you said to me before I ended up handcuffed to a chain link fence in 110 degree weather."

Anya's answering smile was a bit chagrined, and she raised her hands defensively. "Okay, okay, I get your point. But we do need to talk about Clarke, Callaghan— Oh, god, she _cannot_ take your name. That’d just be tragic."

"No thanks, Ahn."

Anya winced. "It's not really optional, Lex. Well, you could have this conversation with Lincoln or Raven if you wanted to, I guess, but the fact that you’re going to have it is non-negotiable."

"So, what? Were you chosen by committee or something?" Lexa narrowed her eyes, her brows knitting together. "Is this… Is this meant to be an intervention?"

"Yeah, actually." Anya gave her an apologetic grimace.

"Oh. Great. That's just great." Lexa stood abruptly, dusting her hands off on her thighs. "Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’ve got to touch base with Gustus about the EVA."

"You can't keep running, Lexa." Anya's tone cut straight through to Lexa's marrow.

Lexa groaned, but nodded despite herself. "I know." She sat back in her chair, her jaw clenched tight against the emotion rolling in her gut. "It's just— I keep trying to do the right thing, the thing that'll get us all home safely, but instead I keep screwing everything up even worse."

"She was going to find out about your hand at some point," Anya replied with a shrug. "I'm honestly surprised it took her this long."

"That's not—" Lexa laughed harshly, shook her head. "Oh man, do I _wish_ that was the issue here." She covered her face with her hands, dug the pads of her thumbs into her temples. "She made a pass at me, Anya."

"Yeah? It's about time. Good for her." Lexa raised her head, her face crumpling, and Anya's grin turned sour. "Wait, is that _not_ a positive? I'm having trouble seeing what the issue is here."

"I turned her down."

The words dropped between them like a ton of bricks. Anya stared at her blankly for a moment, not seeming to register the response. Then her eyes widened a fraction and she let her head fall back with an obnoxious groan. "You _idiot_ , Lexa. You complete and utter moron. You're so dumb. You know that, right?"

"I have a PhD."

"Yeah? Well, _I_ have a girlfriend."

"It's not that easy."

Anya scoffed and shook her head. "It is, Lexa, it really is. All you do is you go and you fucking _communicate_ , and you fix this."

Lexa's shoulders drooped, and she planted a foot on the floor and idly spun herself back and forth. "I'm already doing what she wants me to do," she replied flatly. "She asked me to leave, so I left."

"Pretty sure she wouldn't have meant 'and never come back'."

"You didn't hear her, Anya."

"You rejected her. Of course she was going to freak out a little bit. She's been head over heels for you for, what, five years now?"

The thoughts rushing through Lexa's head screeched to a halt, fell away beneath a cloud of static. Her mouth dropped open, moved soundlessly a few times before she managed to scramble together a response. "I'm sorry?"

"Please don't tell me you were unaware." Anya caught the look on Lexa's face and choked. "Oh, for _fuck's_ sake, Lexa. How dense are you? Christ, everyone on Earth is gonna be like 'hey, where'd the Ark go?' and they'll realize it just got sucked into the massive black hole that's been masquerading as your head."

"Anya, can _please_ we not do this?"

"If you answer me one thing." Lexa grimaced, but raised her chin in agreement anyway. "Did you really, _honestly_ , not know that?"

"I—" Lexa gestured helplessly. "I thought— I don't know, I thought I was only seeing what I wished would be there." She slumped back in her chair and groaned. "Fuck, Ahn."

"I know, buddy. I know." Anya slid off the console and moved towards Lexa's side. She carded her fingers through Lexa's hair and Lexa leaned into the touch, a whimper slipping past her lips. "I know, Lex. It's shit, and it's probably gonna be shit for a while, but you know me, hey. Always down for a shitshow." Anya bumped her hip into Lexa's shoulder, directed a soft smile at her when she glanced up. "Come on, let's get some food in you, yeah?"

With a stilted nod, Lexa forced herself to her feet. She swayed into Anya's side, pressing her face into Anya's shoulder. "You're too good to me."

"Well, yeah, duh," Anya replied, throwing an arm around Lexa's shoulders and steering her towards the door, "but you spend every second of every day looking out for us, Lex. It's not exactly a hardship to do the same for you. Now, let's get a move on. Raven's been threatening to eat the last of the chicken teriyaki, and I'd really rather not give her the opportunity."

* * *

Lexa tugged the cuffs of her sleeves down over her hands before hugging an arm around her chest. The atmospheric regulator had taken to compensating for the damaged heating in Anya's bunk by aggressively cooling the surrounding areas. Frankly, Lexa was just waiting for the day she'd wake up frozen into her bunk. 

Her sleeve rode up her forearm and she swore under her breath and yanked it down, only for her other sleeve to slip up off her wrist. She whined pathetically and tried again to fix the cuffs, then finally caved and wedged her hands into her armpits. The day Clarke was prepared to get back to work couldn't come soon enough, what with the Ark all but falling to pieces around them.

Lexa leaned back against the corridor wall and rolled her eyes. Of _course_ she couldn't turn off the endless task list, even for a second. God forbid. Finding a moment of peace and quiet had long since become an impossibility anyways, so…

Her thoughts so completely overwhelmed her that she didn't hear the telltale sounds of someone descending from the upper deck until their sneakers squeaked on a ladder rung. Lexa's head snapped up, her heart climbing into her throat as Clarke dismounted the ladder and turned towards her. 

Damp hair hung limp about Clarke's face, dropping water down her forehead. When her feet were solidly on the deck, Clarke grabbed the towel draped over her shoulder and scrubbed at her scalp. "Stupid-ass fuckin' dryer—"

Lexa cleared her throat.

Clarke's scrubbing ceased and she slowly lowered her towel, clutching it instead to her chest as she took a deep breath. Her eyes tracking the movement, Lexa couldn't help but stare in morbid fascination at the spot where Clarke's shirt clung to her ribs, each individual bone visible through the fabric.

She tore her gaze away, directed it instead towards Clarke's face. Not that that was much better of an idea, given the intensity of the glare Clarke had fixed her with. "Good workout?" Oh, fantastic conversation starter, Lexa. Well done.

Clarke shot her a dead-eyed look. "Don't act like you care."

Lexa huffed. "I care. All I've been doing is—" She shook her head, cut herself off. "Can I come in?"

"Whatever. It's a free ship."

Clarke didn't slam the door on her, so she figured that was a decently good sign. Maybe.

"I brought you a snack," Lexa offered up, holding out a pouch of M&Ms. 

Clarke's eyes flicked to it and she shook her head. "I'm not hungry."

"Oh. Okay. Sorry."

Clarke ignored Lexa's ramblings in favour of scrabbling around in a storage compartment. Something crinkled, and Clarke turned back towards her with a protein bar stuffed halfway into her mouth. She chewed a couple of times and then arched an eyebrow. "Oh, are you still here?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"You left last night."

Lexa huffed, gesturing fruitlessly as she struggled to gather together a retort. "You _asked me to_. Was I supposed to not give you that courtesy?"

"Duh."

"You hear how irrational that is, yes?" Lexa screwed her eyes shut and shook her head. "Okay. So. I wanted to clear the air about our discussion yesterday."

"Oh, you were pretty clear."

"Clarke—"

"I know I'm not going to be enough for you. Not like this. I'm not going to live up to the memories of me you spent more than a year hanging onto. I'm not that person anymore, and that's— Well, it's not 'fine', but— Anyways, that's beside the point. What I mean to say is that we don't need to keep rehashing how much I've changed. I'm well aware."

"Can you let me get a word in edgewise," Lexa snapped. Regret swamped her immediately when Clarke flinched. "Sorry, I—" She flexed her fingers and inhaled deeply, waiting for her emotions to level out before she continued. "What I said last night was deeply rooted in the Code of Conduct. It was in no way meant to come across an indictment of you, but rather of the reality of the situation we've found ourselves in."

Clarke sneered. "Sure, yeah, feed me that garbage. I'll try and forget the fact you've been allowing every single other person on this ship to flaunt their violations of the code for _months_."

"It's not the same thing and you know it."

"Oh, pray tell, how is it any different?" Clarke scoffed. "I'd really like to hear you try and justify all that hypocrisy."

Lexa pushed up off the desk, her back going stiff. "I'm the commander of this mission. That's really all there is to it."

"I think I deserve more than you trying to bullshit me."

"You're really going to make me break this down, huh?" Clarke shrugged, and Lexa scrubbed a hand through her hair with a sigh. "I'm the commander of the Ark, and I'm an American soldier. Either one of those facts alone would mean different treatment from NASA, but in combination? The expectations that I carry on my shoulders have _nothing_ in common with those the rest of you face.

"If there was an issue onboard and in the process of addressing it it was revealed that one of you had violated the code, the onus would be on me to give justification for the breach. I'd carry that burden alongside the crew member who erred, and I'd receive the same reprimands. But they'd consider the extenuating circumstances and we'd all come out the other side employed and not much worse for the wear.

"But me? Given my leadership position, I'm meant to be the last bastion of professionalism. I'm already on thin ice for hijacking the ship to rescue you. If anything else went wrong and there was even the faintest _whisper_ that I was in violation of the Code of Conduct, I wouldn't get the benefit of doubt before receiving the full brunt of their discipline. I'd be discharged from the Army. Any hope of my continued employment with NASA would be over. It'd be framed as a mutual decision to part ways, but don't doubt that I'd be blacklisted from federal employment. My _life_ would be over." Blood pounded in her ears, deafening. She struggled to catch her breath, her face burning.

Clarke's lip curled. "Seems like a rather prolonged version of an 'it's not you, it's me' copout, to tell you the truth."

Control slipping from her grasp. Lexa wheeled around, sparking with anger, with disbelief. "Don't you dare assume that it's an excuse. Don't you _dare_ think for a _second_ that I don't want this, Clarke." She let out a sardonic laugh, then wiped fiercely at the tears tracking down her cheek. "Even if you trust nothing else that leaves my mouth, trust me on that." 

Clarke stared at her, slack-jawed. "Excuse me?"

"I meant it, when I said that I love you. With every fibre of my being, I meant it. I'm not going to pretend anymore. I owe you that much, at least—" 

"You don't owe me anything, Lexa."

Lexa scoffed. "You may have forgiven me—"

"There's _nothing_ to forgive."

"You may have forgiven me," Lexa repeated firmly, "but I haven't forgiven myself. I failed you then, and I'm trying so hard not to fail you again. But this? Whatever there might be between us? It is immensely precious to me, but it's something I _cannot_ explore right now, no matter how much it pains me. I have too many obligations to allow myself the freedom to pursue my own desires. The risk is too great. 

"If we ever start something, I want to be able to commit my whole self to it. I want us to have the best possible chance for success. We deserve nothing less. That can't happen right now."

"Oh," Clarke breathed, touching trembling fingers to her bottom lip. "Oh, Lexa." She swallowed then took a shuddering breath. Tears glinted bright in the corners of her eyes. Lexa had never seen someone more beautiful. "I— I just need you to know I've spent enough time refusing to acknowledge this, too. I let myself imagine stuff when I was planet-side, all these things that were impossibilities, and then you came back, you saved me, you allowed me to imagine that impossibility could become reality. I get the hesitancy, believe me, but I don't want to squander this chance." 

Tears following freely, Lexa gave a shaky smile. "I promise you, if this is still something you want when all of this is over, I'll be here. Okay? If you still want me, you can have me."

Clarke stepped forward, rested her hands on Lexa's shoulders. "When we don't have anyone left to answer to?"

"When we've got no one left to answer to," Lexa affirmed with a sharp nod, looping her arms around Clarke's waist and hugging her tight. "I'm yours."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw words don't work the way you want them to and you low-key hate everything
> 
> if you're still here ty


End file.
